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'>VARY  HALLOCK>OOTE 


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BY    THE    SAME    AUTHOH. 


THE  LED-HOR3E  CLfllM. 

I  vol.    I6mo.    Illustrated  by  the  Author. 
$1.25. 

A    THRILLING  STORY  OF  THE  MINING 
CAMPS  OF  COLORADO. 


"Unusual  depth  and  charm."  —  St.  Paul  Pioneer- 
Press. 

"A  charming  story  charmingly  illustrated."  —  New 
York  Times. 

"It  is  a  truly  fascinating  piece  of  American  fiction, 
and  the  author's  illustrations  are  admirable."  —  Phila 
delphia  Press. 

"The  most  vigorous  romance  of  mining  life  that  has 
been  written  since  Bret  Harte's  stories."  —  New  York 
World. 

"  Mrs.  Foote's  first  novel  has  raised  her  to  a  level  on 
which  she  is  only  to  be  compared  with  our  best  women 
novelists.  To  make  this  comparison  briefly,  Miss  Wool- 
son  observes  keenly,  Mrs.  Burnett  writes  charmingly, 
and  Mrs.  Foote  feels  intensely."—  The  Critic. 


Sold  by  'booksellers.      Sent,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of 
price  by  the  publishers, 

TICKNOR    AND    COMPANY, 


JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY 


BY 


MARY  HALLOCK   FOOTE 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  LED-HORSE  CLAIM,"    "FRIEND  BARTON'S 
CONCERN,"    ETC. 


BOSTON 
TICKNOR    AND    COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1885  AND  1886,  BY  THE  CENTURY  Co. 

AND    lSS6,    BY   TlCKNOR  &   Co. 


All  Rights  Reserved. 


C.  J.  PETERS  &  SON,  BOSTON. 


/691 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    IN  THE  BURNT  WOODS 9 

II.     A  COMMUNITY  OF  SPECIALISTS 22 

III.    MRS.  CRAIG'S  LITTLE  DINNER 38 

IY.     THE  CAMP-FIRE 49 

Y.    AN  OFFSET  TO  THE  DINNER 64 

VI.    JOSEPHINE'S  QUESTION 74 

VII.    MR.  CRAIG  GOES  A-HUNTING 91 

VIII.    BODEWIN'S  SISTER 103 

IX.  THE  TENDER  MERCIES  OF  THE  WICKED    .     .  118 

X.    THE  VALLEY  TRAIL 133 

XL    AN  ANONYMOUS  LETTER 147 

XII.    DEAD  OR  MISSING 156 

XIII.  ON  THE   KOAD   TO   THE   PASS 169 

XIV.  A  MESSAGE  TO  THE  CAMP 180 

XV.    CIRCUMSTANTIAL  EVIDENCE 186 

XVI.    BABE 198 

XVII.    AMATEUR  SURGERY 208 

XVIII.    ANOTHER  OBLIGATION       224 

XIX.  THE  PRICE  OF  BODEWIN'S  LIBERTY      .     .     .  238 

XX.    A  STAR  is  HIDDEN 248 

5 


JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

I1ST  THE   BUENT   WOODS. 

THE  western  slope  of  the  Park  range,  as  it 
sinks  into  the  valley  of  the  Arkansas,  is  clothed 
to  the  timber-line  with  monotonous  forests  of 
pine  and  fir.  In  winter  this  dark  zone  of  trees 
looks  darker  for  the  zone  of  snows  above  it ;  in 
spring  the  patches  of  sunlight  on  the  mountain 
side  bring  out  a  paler  and  more  vivid  green  ;  the 
lower  gulches,  lined  with  aspens,  in  autumn  show 
a  streak  of  faded  gold ;  but  at  all  seasons,  from 
the  highest  of  the  mountain's  lights  to  the  deep 
est  of  its  shadows,  the  range  of  color  is  slight. 

The  deepest  shadow  on  the  mountains  is  one 
which  does  not  change  with  the  seasons  or  pass 
with  the  clouds.  It  covers  an  area  of  many  acres. 
Within  its  limits  the  trees  are  still  standing,  but 
leafless  and  blackened  from  root  to  crown.  They 
are  the  unburied  dead  which  the  forest  fires  have 

9 


10  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

left  on  the  field  after  one  of  their  wild  forays. 
In  the  course  of  years  the  wind  will  flay  them 
and  the  snows  will  bleach  them  to  the  grayish 
whiteness  of  old  bones.  But  in  the  summer  of 
187-,  when  the  Eagle  Bird  and  Uinta  lode  claims 
were  first  discovered,  the  burnt  woods  which  cov 
ered  them  had  but  just  met  their  fate.  Each 
separate  tree  was  an  effigy  of  desolation,  uplifting 
its  charred  and  rigid  limbs  as  if  in  mute  attesta 
tion  of  its  wrongs.  The  wind  could  get  no  more 
music  out  of  them ;  the  few  birds  which  nested  so 
far  above  the  valley  forsook  their  branches ;  the 
traveller  missed  their  spicy  shade.  They  could 
no  longer  offer  either  rest,  shelter,  or  concealment 
to  any  living  creature.  But  their  neighborhood 
was  as  good  as  any  other  for  the  location  of  a 
mine. 

Colonel  Harkins,  the  owner  of  the  Eagle  Bird 
and  the  Uinta,  did  not  trouble  himself  about  his 
environment.  He  looked  about  him  and  saw  that 
the  dead  trees  were  fit  for  fuel,  if  not  for  build 
ing  and  the  timbering  of  shafts.  He  saw  that  the 
slope  of  the  hill  was  sufficient  for  drainage,  and 
for  the  future  ore-dumps  of  unknown  value  to 
lean  their  cone-shaped  mounds  against.  He 
reckoned  the  cost  of  a  wagon-road  to  the  nearest 


IN  THE  BURNT  WOODS.  11 

camp,  two  miles  away,  which  formed  the  nucleus 
of  many  lesser  camps  and  outlying  mines  scat 
tered  far  and  near  along  the  sides  of  the  range  or 
concealed  in  the  folds  of  its  forest  garment. 

An  old  hunter's  and  prospector's  trail,  starting 
in  the  valley,  took  its  way  deviously  but  always 
upwards  in  the  direction  of  the  pass.  A  short 
distance  beyond  the  two  claims  it  was  joined  by  a 
trail  from  the  camp.  Thus  the  new  mines,  though 
lonely  in  their  situation,  were  not  inaccessible. 

One  afternoon,  about  four  o'clock,  a  man  came 
out  of  the  Eagle  Bird  tunnel,  extinguished  his 
candle  as  its  rays  turned  sickly  in  the  daylight, 
and,  mounting  his  horse,  followed  the  trail  which 
led  onward  into  the  forest.  The  sun  stood 
nearly  opposite  across  the  valley,  and  he  raised  his 
hand  to  his  hat-brim,  as  if  blinded  by  the  glare. 
He  sat  his  horse  easily,  lounging  a  little  forward 
after  the  manner  of  men  who  spend  many  hours 
in  the  saddle  in  solitary,  uneventful  journey  ings. 
He  was  a  youngish,  slenderly  made  man,  with  a 
distinctly  good  bearing.  Even  as  he  jogged 
along  on  his  bald-faced  bay  in  the  bleak  untem- 
pered  light,  you  felt  that  he  was  one  whom  life 
had  refined  and  sobered,  if  it  had  not  distin 
guished  him  with  any  great  measure  of  joy  or  of 


12  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

success.  His  thin,  smooth  cheeks  were  darkly 
tanned  ;  the  close-shorn,  light-brown  hair,  without 
a  trace  of  gold  in  it,  showed  by  its  difference  of 
texture  rather  than  color  against  his  temples  and 
neck.  His  hands  were  the  slender,  pointed  hands 
which  go  with  a  supple,  small-jointed  frame.  His 
beauty,  what  there  was  of  it,  consisted  chiefly  in 
this  harmony  of  parts,  uniting  in  a  personality 
unique  but  singularly  unaggressive.  The  rider's 
name  was  John  Bodewin. 

The  trail,  now  turning  away  from  the  valley, 
gave  him  the  benefit  of  his  own  shadow  opposed 
to  the  sun.  Its  broad  light  streamed  before  him 
into  the  forest  and  shone  full  in  the  faces  of  two 
people  at  a  little  distance  from  him,  who  had 
turned  at  the  sound  of  his  horse's  feet,  —  a  mid 
dle-aged  gentleman,  seated  in  a  rather  disconso 
late  attitude  on  the  smooth,  barkless  trunk  of  a 
fallen  tree,  and  a  young  lady  in  a  riding-habit, 
who  stood  near  him  and  was  speaking  to  him 
when  Bodewin  saw  them  first.  The  gentleman 
was  of  stout  proportions  and  fresh  complexion, 
intensified  by  a  recent  coat  of  sunburn.  Bode 
win  recognized  Mr.  Newbold  at  once ;  the  dark- 
eyed  girl  beside  him  was  presumably  Mr. 
Newbold's  daughter. 


IN   THE   BURNT   WOODS.  13 

"Did  you  ever  know  anything  so  still  as  this 
place  ?  "  she  had  been  saying.  "  I  cannot  hear  a 
sound  except  that  horse's  tread.  Some  one  is 
coming  who  is  in  no  hurry,  it  seems." 

A  moment  later  Bodewin  appeared  at  the  turn 
of  the  trail. 

"He's  in  no  hurry,"  Mr.  Newbold  remarked 
sulkily,  eyeing  the  horseman's  approach,  "  if  he 
takes  his  own  business  as  coolly  as  he  does  other 
people's." 

"Do  you  know  him,  papa?"  the  girl  asked  in 
surprise.  Bodewin  had  welcomed  the  sight  of  a 
fair  woman  in  the  forest,  and  involuntarily  paid  it 
the  homage  of  a  more  erect  seat  in  his  saddle,  and 
a  hasty  restoration  of  his  hat  from  the  angle  of 
comfort  on  a  hot  afternoon,  with  the  sun  on  the 
back  of  one's  neck,  to  the  level  of  decorum  under 
all  circumstances.  He  passed  the  group  at  his 
horse's  slowest  walk. 

"How  d'you  do,  Bodewin?  Still  here,  you 
see,"  Mr.  Newbold  said,  touching  his  hat  to  him. 

Bodewin  made  some  civil  though  inaudible  reply. 
He  had  a  speaking  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Newbold, 
but  he  could  hardly  have  been  surprised  to  see  him 
there  or  elsewhere,  since  that  gentleman's  system 
of  movements  was  quite  unknown  to  him. 


14 

Miss  Newbold  had  been  two  weeks  in  the 
camp,  and  Bodewin  had  not  sought  to  see  her 
or  be  presented  to  her  for  reasons  personal,  refer- 

rring  to  her  father,  and  local,  referring  to  the  city 
of  her  father's  adoption.  He  had  a  preconceived 
idea  of  what  a  Kansas  City  girl  was  likely  to  be. 
But  who  was  he,  John  Bodewin,  a  native  of  one 
of  the  little  Sound  cities  of  Connecticut,  that  he 
should  be  setting  up  geographical  standards  and 
prejudging  his  countrywomen  by  them  ?  And 
what  was  there  about  Newbold  to  make  it  incredi 
ble  that  he  should  be  the  father  of  a  girl,  too 
handsome  not  to  be  supposed  to  know  it  herself, 
who  kept  her  quiet  pose  under  the  eyes  of  a 
stranger  with  an  unconcern  that  had  in  it  as  little 
of  bravado  as  of  stolidity? 

"  So  that  is  Mr.  John  Bodewin ! "  Miss  New- 
bold  said,  with  meditative  emphasis. 

"It's  queer  you  should  never  have  seen  Bode 
win  !  "  her  father  remarked. 

"  I  think  I  did  see  him  once,  without  knowing 
it  was  he,  coming  out  of  the  Wiltsie  House  with 
Mr.  Craig." 

"  Where  were  you  ?  " 

"  I  was  looking  out  of  our  window,  papa,  hop 
ing  every  next  man  on  the  street  would  be  you. 


IN  THE  BURNT   WOODS.  15 

It  was  nearly  eight  o'clock,  and  I  was  simply 
perishing  for  my  dinner." 

"  I  suppose  I  must  have  come  along  after  a 
while,  as  you  didn't  perish,"  said  Mr.  Newbold. 
"  When  was  it  you  were  so  near  dissolution  ?  " 

"  It  was  on  Saturday,  the  nineteenth  of  June. 
I  remember  the  date,  because  that  morning  you 
first  told  me  about  the  lawsuit,  and  the  text  on 
my  calendar  was  4  Keep  o'  the  windy  side  of  the 
law' — 'especially  mining  law,'  I  wrote  under 
neath,  and  pinned  it  in  the  frame  of  your  looking- 
glass.  But  you  did  not  see  it,  because  that  after 
noon  our  rooms  were  changed." 

"You  and  Bodewin  must  consult  the  same 
oracle,"  said  Mr.  Newbold.  "  It  was  on  that 
afternoon  in  Craig's  office  he  positively  refused 
to  go  on  the  case." 

"Did  he  give  you  his  reasons  for  declining, 
papa,  or  don't  they  give  reasons?" 

"  They  do  as  they  choose,  generally.  Bodewin 
choose  to  keep  his  to  himself." 

"I  suppose  he  thinks  we  are  quite  in  the 
wrong,  and  is  too  polite  to  say  so." 

"  What  he  thinks  is  not  precisely  what  we  are 
after."  Mr.  Newbold  moved  restlessly  and  felt 
in  his  pockets  for  a  handkerchief  with  which  he 


16 

removed  the  marks  of  charred  pine-wood  from  his 
fingers.  "  He  is  supposed  to  have  in  his  posses 
sion  the  facts  we  need  to  complete  our  case.  If 
he  would  consent  to  part  with  them  on  the 
witness-stand,  he  might  keep  his  opinion  and 
welcome." 

"  Are  these  facts  Mr.  Bode  win's  property  ex 
clusively,  papa  ?  " 

"  So  far  as  I  know,  they  are." 

"  Why,  how  wretched  of  him  !  He  might  as 
well  be  a  Uinta  man  and  done  with  it !  Is  he,  do 
you  suppose  ?  " 

"I  don't  profess  to  know,  my  dear,  what  he 
is!" 

"Would  any  other  person  who  happened  to 
have  the  facts  Mr.  Bodewin  has  be  as  desirable 
a  witness  as  he  ?  " 

"  More  so,  perhaps.  I  have  told  you  it  is  not 
Bodewin  we  want,  but  his  facts.  He  is  an 
expert,  but  in  this  case  he  is  not  asked  to  give  an 
expert's  testimony." 

"  What  does  it  imply,  do  you  think?  " 

"What  does  what  imply?"  Mr.  Newbold  took 
his  cross-examination  with  a  half-bored,  half- 
amused  smile.  He  had  a  sharp  eye,  in  a  mild, 
blunt-featured,  smooth-shaven  face. 


IN  THE  BURNT  WOODS.  17 

"  His  refusing  to  testify,  papa,"  his  daughter 
patiently  explained. 

"  It  might  imply,  among  other  things,  that  Mr. 
Bodewin  is  not  in  want  of  money  at  present." 

"Are  witnesses  paid  much  money  for  their 
testimony  ?  " 

"  Depends  on  the  witness,  and  the  nature  of  the 
testimony,  and  on  what  you  call  much." 

"  Papa,  you  will  have  to  hold  me  !  You  look 
so  comfortable,  and  there  is  nowhere  else  to  sit." 
Miss  Newbold  pushed  aside  her  father's  cane  and 
seated  herself,  with  a  smile  half  deprecating,  half 
playful,  on  his  knee. 

"  If  I  look  comfortable,  my  looks  belie  me,"  he 
sighed,  adjusting  himself  to  the  weight  of  her 
slender  figure.  "Why  do  we  sit?  Why  don't 
we  move  on  ?  " 

"  Where  shall  we  move  to,  if  you  please  ? 
Back  to  the  Eagle  Bird,  and  sit  on  the  piazza 
with  the  sun  in  our  eyes  ?  Look  at  that  valley  ! " 

"  Looks  hot,  don't  it  ?  " 

"  Papa,  how  —  much  —  did  you  offer  Mr.  Bode 
win  ?  " 

"How  much  what?"  Mr.  Newbold  doggedly 
held  out. 

"  Poor  papa ! "  said  his  daughter,  holding  him 


18  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

by  the  shoulders  and  laughing,  with  her  face  close 
to  his.  "It's  no  use  pretending  you  are  not 
going  to  tell  me.  You  know  you  are  ;  —  it's  only 
a  question  of  time." 

"Come,  get  up,  Josephine  !  You're  too  heavy; 
this  log  needs  a  saddle  on  it." 

"  I  never  was  too  heavy  before." 

"  You  never  before  found  me  reduced  to  such  a 
painful  extremity  for  a  seat." 

"  How  much,  papa  ?  and  I'll  let  you  up." 

"  Let  me  up  first,  and  then  we'll  see  about  it. 
What  do  you  want  to  know  for  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  know  partly  because  you  don't 
want  to  tell  me.  Come,  papa !  On  compulsion, 
you  know.  A  man  may  say  anything  under 
pressure.  There's  nothing  yielding  about  you. 
Besides,  it's  only  mines.  It  hasn't  anything  to  do 
with  your  real  business !  " 

Mr.  Newbold  relieved  himself  by  a  resolute 
push  from  the  burden  of  his  daughter's  loveliness, 
and  got  himself  stiffly  upon  his  feet. 

"  By  George,  you  are  heavy  I  "  he  muttered 
reproachfully,  as  he  limped  a  few  steps  along  the 
trail. 

"  Now,  papa,  be  a  good  boy.  Be  frank  with  me 
for  once,"  Josephine  pleaded,  still  laughing  and 


IN  THE  BURNT  WOODS.  19 

dragging  upon  his  arm  with  her  hands  locked 
within  it.  "  You  need  never  hope  to  look  upon 
the  Eagle  Bird  again  unless  you  tell  me  how  — 
much  —  money  —  you  offered  Mr.  Bodewin." 

"  Well,  to  be  frank  with  you,"  said  Mr.  New- 
bold,  attempting  to  light  a  cigar  under  difficulties, 
"I  never  offered  Mr.  Bodewin  a  penny.  But  my 
lawyers  offered  him  —  five  thousand  dollars,  and 
be  hanged  to  him,"  he  concluded,  as  he  tossed 
his  extinguished  match  into  the  dust.  Josephine 
released  his  arm  suddenly  and  confronted  him  in 
sober  amazement. 

"Papa,  I  wish  I  had  some  facts  1  could 
dispose  of  at  that  rate.  Isn't  that  a  good  deal  of 
money  to  offer  a  man  for  just  telling  the  truth  ?  " 

"  Would  you  expect  a  professional  man  to 
spend  his  time  in  court  on  another  man's  case  for 
the  witness-fees  ?  "  Mr.  Newbold  asked. 

"  How  much  of  his  time  would  he  have  to 
spend?" 

"An  hour,  perhaps,  actually  on  the  stand." 
Mr.  Newbold  yielded  the  point  carelessly. 

"  I  should  not  have  supposed,  from  Mr.  Bode- 
win's  appearance  as  he  rode  through  the  woods 
just  now,  that  his  time  was  worth  five  thousand 
dollars  an  hour." 


20  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"  There  are  hours  and  hours  of  a  man's  time, 
my  dear.  This  may  not  be  one  of  Bode  win's 
five-thousand-dollar  hours." 

"  Papa,  you  know  perfectly  well  there  is  no 
man  living  who  can  earn  five  thousand  dollars 
honestly  in  an  hour." 

"Do  I?"  said  Mr.  Newbold,  unconcernedly. 
"  I  wish  I  knew  by  personal  experience  to  the 
contrary." 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  he  did  not  take  it.  I  respect 
him  for  not  taking  it.  At  the  same  time  —  " 

"You  would  like  to  know  whether  he  was 
offered  more  by  the  other  side  to  keep  quiet." 

They  were  walking  now  along  the  trail, 
Josephine  preceding  her  father.  As  he  spoke  and 
laughed  his  easy,  unmirthful  laugh,  she  looked 
back  at  him.  The  level  sunbeams  striking  across 
her  eyes  turned  the  blackness  of  their  thick, 
curved  lashes  to  a  reddish  brown. 

"  Papa,  do  you  believe  that  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  a  man  of  many  beliefs,"  Mr.  Newbold 
replied,  with  the  manner  of  one  who  is  done  with 
a  subject. 

Josephine  wished  her  father  would  speak  again, 
and  rob  those  last  words  of  their  unpleasant  sig 
nificance,  but  he  followed  her  in  silence,  striking 


IK   THE  BURNT   WOODS.  21 

off,  with  his  aimlessly  industrious  cane,  the 
brittle,  charred  twigs  that  came  in  his  way. 
"When  they  were  nearly  opposite  the  tunnel,  the 
trail  widened,  and  she  walked  at  his  side. 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  turning  to  him  brightly,  as  if 
to  make  open  amends  for  her  tacit  dissatisfaction 
with  him,  "  why  won't  you  take  that  Bird  off  the 
name  of  your  mine.  — Eagle  Bird!"  she  repeated, 
mockingly. 

"  We'll  wait  and  see  who  the  mine  belongs  to. 
Mr.  Harkins's  taste  in  names  may  not  be  the  same 
as  yours." 

44  Well,"  said  Josephine,  "  the  name  is  definite 
enough,  if  the  ownership  is  vague." 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  COMMUNITY   OF   SPECIALISTS. 

AN  acre  of  the  hill-side  above  the  tunnel  had 
been  cleared  of  its  scorched  timber  to  make  room 
for  the  surface  "  plant "  of  the  Eagle  Bird.  The 
ground  was  hard  arid  verdureless.  Each  day's 
dust,  before  the  next  day  came,  was  swept  into 
windrows  or  whirled  away  altogether  by  intermit 
tent  gusts,  charging  up  the  slope  from  the  valley. 
The  "plant"  consisted  of  the  main  shaft-house 
and  a  number  of  log-cabins,  sheds,  and  board- 
houses,  grouped  irregularly  round  it.  The  dwell 
ing  of  the  superintendent  was  distinguished  by 
its  high  porch,  with  an  ornamental  cornice  sup 
porting  the  eaves,  and  by  the  addition  of  shutters 
to  its  windows.  Some  feeble  vines  had  been 
early  baulked  in  an  attempt  to  climb  the  loose 
warp  of  strings  extending  from  the  railing  of  the 
porch  to  a  series  of  nails  ruthlessly  driven  into 
the  cornice  above.  Two  or  three  saddle-horses, 
hitched  to  the  posts  which  supported  the  gallery, 

22 


A   COMMUNITY  OF   SPECIALISTS.  23 

were  swinging  their  heads  discontentedly,  and  a 
row  of  men  stood  with  their  backs  against  the 
side  of  the  house  near  the  lower  entrance,  each 
man  with  his  chin  elevated  and  his  hat  tilted  for 
ward  over  his  eyes,  as  a  defence  from  the  rays  of 
the  low  sun.  Sammis,  the  temporary  superin 
tendent  of  the  Eagle  Bird,  was  holding  forth  on 
the  subject  of  the  lawsuit  to  a  few  friends  who  had 
ridden  over  from  the  new  camp  at  Spearfish. 

As  they  passed  this  group  Josephine  confided 
to  her  father  in  a  little  grimace  her  opinion  of  the 
gentlemen  from  Spearfish.  She  ran  up  the  steps 
of  the  piazza,  while  her  father  remained  below, 
joining  in  the  talk  of  the  men. 

"Say,  Mr.  Newbold,"  Sammis  appealed  to  his 
principal,  "I  been  telling  the  boys  that  you 
bought  this  here  Eagle  Bird  mine  of  Jim  Keesner, 
and  nobody  but  him.  Is  that  so,  or  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  That  is  so,  Sammis,"  said  Mr.  Newbold.  "  The 
mine  was  located  in  Keesner's  name,  and  the 
transfer  of  titles  was  made  between  him  and  my 
self  exclusively.  Harkins's  name  was  never  men 
tioned.  I'm  not  a  mining  man,  gentlemen,"  Mr. 
Newbold  continued,  smiling  upon  the  company  at 
large,  "but  I've  heard  of  Colonel  Billy  Harkins. 
He's  pretty  well  known  in  Kansas  City." 


24  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"  He's  sold  some  mines  there,  I  guess,"  one  of 
the  delegation  from  Spearfish  remarked. 

"  More  than  he  will  ever  sell  there  again,"  said 
Mr.  Newbold.  -"I  never  would  have  touched  the 
property  without  an  expert's  report  on  it,  if  the 
colonel's  name  had  been  in  any  way  connected  with 
it.  I  didn't  know  even  that  he  owned  the  Uinta." 

"The  boys  here,"  said  Sammis,  "was  remarkin' 
it  seemed  kind  o'  keerless  in  you  to  buy  a  mine 
on  paper,  as  you  might  say.  I  told  'em  you  had  a 
copy  of  the  first  location  notice  certified  to  by  the 
recorder  of  this  district." 

"  That  ought  to  fix  the  title  all  right,"  one  of 
Spearfish  men  admitted;  while  another  offered 
the  amendment,  "  If  mining  records  was  ever  kep' 
as  they'd  ought  to  be,  and  not  sloshed  round  so 
public  like." 

"  That's  just  where  I  drop  on  it,"  said  Sammis. 
"  That  recorder  must  '  a '  certified  to  a  false  copy, 
or  else  the  record's  been  tampered  with.  There 
isn't  a  man  in  camp  that  don't  believe  Mr.  New- 
bold  owns  this  mine.  Question  is,  how  you  goin' 
to  prove  it  ?  Why  —  Lord,  when  I  first  got 
notice  to  quit  work  in  the  new  shaft,  I  didn't  pay 
no  more  Mention  to  it !  I  just  walked  into  the 
court-house  one  day,  and  asked  to  have  a  look  at 


A  COMMUNITY  OF   SPECIALISTS.  25 

the  location  notice  of  the  Eagle  Bird  mine.  And, 
by ,  there  they'd  got  it  all  fixed." 

"  I'd  hunt  that  recorder  with  a  shot-gun  !  "  one 
of  Sammis's  friends  remarked. 

"  I  wouldn't  waste  time  on  him  —  I'd  hunt  Jim 
Keesner,"  another  one  said. 

"  Yes,  there'd  be  more  huntin'  than  findin',  I 
guess,"  said  Sammis.  "There's  plenty  of  room 
between  the  Rockies  and  the  Sierries  for  Jim 
Keesner  to  hide  out.  He  might  be  guidin'  parties 
in  the  mountains ;  he  might  be  raiichin'  it  or 
teamin'  it ;  he  might  be  prospectin'  round  among 
the  hills  somewheres,  or  down  on  the  reservation ; 
he  might  'a'  joined  them  fool  Mormons. 

"  What's  Hark'  say  's  gone  of  him  ?  "  one  of 
the  group  inquired. 

"  Harkins  ?  Harkins  is  as  innocent  as  the  babe 
unborn.  He  don't  know  nothin'  'bout  Keesner. 
He  just  p'ints  to  his  records." 

"  When  I  first  arrived  in  the  camp,"  Mr.  New- 
bold  interposed,  "  I  should  say  as  many  as  twenty 
men  came  to  me  and  offered  to  take  their  affidavit 
that  the  Eagle  Bird  monuments  had  been  moved, 
and  that  the  change  had  been  made  since  our  big 
strike  here.  But  come  to  cross-examine  a  little, 
they  got  all  mixed  up  in  their  memories.  Some 


26 

remembered  one  thing,  and  some  one  else  contra 
dicted  it.  You  couldn't  get  a  single  witness  who 
would  be  worth  anything  to  us  out  of  the  whole 
lot  of  them. 

"  Course  not,"  said  Sammis.  "  I  know  them 
monuments  has  been  moved,  but  I  couldn't  prove 
it  to  a  jury.  You  don't  want  memories;  you 
want  facts.  The  facts  in  this  case  is  —  you 
know,  Jim,"  Sammis  appealed  with  a  gesture  of 
his  thumb  to  the  man  who  stood  next  him,  "  when 
they  first  org'nized  the  district,  Shirley  Ensign, 
he  called  himself,  was  recorder.  P'lonius  was  the 
name  he  went  by.  Kep'  his  records  in  an  old 
candle-box  in  a  corner  of  The  Gem.  Then,  you 
know,  just  after  they  made  their  big  strike  up 
here,  The  Gem  took  fire.  Of  course  it  was 
accidental!  Harkins  packed  the  records  across 
the  street  into  The  Oasis ;  but  it  took  him  a  day 
and  a  half  to  get  there  — •• " 

"  What  business  had  he  with  the  records  ? " 
Mr.  Newbold  interrupted. 

"  Much  as  anybody,"  Sammis  briefly  explained, 
absorbed  in  his  statement  of  the  situation. 

"  Where  was  the  recorder  ?  " 

"  Most  likely  he  was  drunk  —  but,  as  I  was 
sayin',  during  the  time  Colonel  Billy  had  them 


A  COMMUNITY  OF  SPECIALISTS.  27 

records  he  prob'ly  looked  them  over  to  his  advan 
tage.  Now,  you  see,"  —  Sammis  sat  down  on  the 
heels  of  his  boots  and  drew  in  the  dust  with  a  bit 
of  charred  stick  two  parallelograms  side  by  side, 
with  their  boundary-line  in  common,  —  "  them 
two  claims  lay  this  way.  Harkins's  workin's  was 
here,  and  the  Eagle  Bird  had  just  made  a  strike 
right  there  "  —  he  made  two  small  circles  with 
the  bit  of  stick  in  the  opposite  corners  of  each 
parallelogram.  "  The  colonel  knew  them  two 
holes  were  on  the  same  vein.  He  just  takes  them 
records  and  floats  the  north  end  of  his  claim  right 
bod'ly  to  the  west'ard,  and  brings  his  side  line 
down  cater  corn  erin'  —  that  way  ;  and  some  day 
when  there  ain't  anybody  round,  he  changes  his 
stakes,  and  there  he's  got  a  first-class  legal  loca 
tion  right  plumb  onto  your  ground."  Sammis 
turned  the  force  of  his  peroration  upon  Mr.  New- 
bold.  "Oh,  the  colonel's  always  ]egal !  He's  got  ^' 
his  affidavit  men  always  handy.  And  there's 
another  little  peculiarity  of  his'n  you  want  to 
keep  in  mind  —  he's  uncommon  lucky  in  his 
juries.  Now,  the  man  that  surveyed  them  two 
claims  for  the  location  was  John  Bod'ii,  and 
problikely  he's  got  the  notes  —  and  also  problikely  S 
the  colonel's  got  him  coppered." 


28  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"  Sammis,  you  are  a  little  too  figurative  for 
me  sometimes,"  Mr.  Newbold  mildly  observed. 
"What  do  you  mean  by  coppered?  " 

"Bet'n  he  won't  turn  up,"  several  voices  re 
plied,  and  every  man  of  the  group  turned  a 
pitying  eye  on  Mr.  Newbold. 

Sammis  drew  the  sole  of  his  boot  across  his 
diagram,  spat  upon  the  smoothed  dust,  and  so 
rested  the  case  according  to  the  Eagle  Bird. 
The  gentlemen  from  Spearfish,  remarking  that 
they  had  "  better  be  a-movin'  on  so  as  to  git  into 
camp  before  dark,"  mounted  their  horses  and  took 
the  lower  trail  toward  the  valley. 

Mr.  Newbold  was  familiar  with  the  Sammisian 
theory  of  the  case  between  the  mines,  but  each 
fresh  exposition  of  it  made  him  more  restive, 
especially  on  the  point  of  Bodewin's  obduracy. 

"  Sammis,  did  you  mean  to  convey  by  that 
figure  of  speech  you  used  just  now  —  " 

"  That  which,  sir  ?  " 

"  That  expression  you  made  use  of  in  refer 
ence  to  Bodewin  —  that  Harkins  has  bought 
him?" 

"  Well,  sir,  I  should  take  Bode'n  to  be  rayther 
of  an  expensive  article  to  buy  for  a  man  of 
moderate  means;  but  you  can  just  bet  your 


A   COMMUNITY   OF   SPECIALISTS.  29 

bottom  dollar  the  colonel's  got  some  holt  on  him, 
or  he  never'd  V  started  the  scheme." 

"  I  can  force  him  with  a  subpoena,  if  there  is  no 
other  way  to  fetch  him." 

44  Well,  now,  Mr.  Newbold,  I  don't  want  to  give 
advice,  but  you  don't  want  to  send  a  sheriff 
huntin'  Bode'n  if  you  mean  to  git  him !  He 
knows  this  country.  He  can  find  his  hole  and  git 
into  it  too  quick."  As  Sammis  became  excited, 
his  tone  grew  more  nasal  and  his  speech  more  un 
trammelled.  "  You  can't  drive  him  and  you  can't 
buy  him,  in  my  opinion,  —  but  if  you  can  find 
Harkins's  holt  on  him  —  well,  I  do'  know !  If 
you  did  ketch  him  and  force  him  onto  the  stand, 
an  unwillin'  witness  is  worse  than  none." 

Mr.  Newbold  and  his  daughter  rode  back  to  the 
camp  in  the  splendor  of  a  sunset  that  loomed  red 
behind  the  skeleton  pines.  Josephine  let  her 
horse  take  his  own  way  down  the  wagon-track, 
while  she  watched  its  dying  changes.  But  she 
lost  the  last  tints  in  her  preoccupation  with  the 
dust  and  the  strange  meetings  and  passings  on 
the  broad  and  level  road  by  which  they  ap 
proached  the  town.  That  quickening  of  the 
pulse  which  makes  itself  felt  in  every  human 
community  as  day  draws  to  a  close  had  intensi- 


80  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

fied  the  life  of  the  camp.  The  sound  of  its  voices 
and  footsteps,  the  smoke  of  its  fires,  rose  in  the 
still,  cool  air.  Cradled  between  two  ranges  of 
the  mother  mountains  of  the  continent,  the  little 
colony  could  hardly  have  been  more  inland  in  its 
situation ;  it  had  nevertheless  in  many  respects 
the  character  of  a  primitive  seaport.  It  owed  its 
existence  to  hazardous  ventures  from  a  distance. 
Its  shops  were  filled,  not  with  the  fruits  of  its 
soil  or  the  labor  of  its  hands,  but  with  cargoes 
that  had  been  rocked  in  the  four-wheeled  mer 
chantmen  of  the  plains.  Bronzed-faced,  hairy- 
throated  men  occupied  more  than  their  share  of 
its  sidewalks,  spending  carelessly  in  a  few  days 
and  nights  the  price  of  months  of  hardship  and 
isolation.  Its  hopes  and  its  capital  were  largely 
bound  up  in  the  fate  of  adventurers  into  that 
unpeopled  land  which  has  no  history  except  the 
records  written  in  fire,  in  ice,  and  in  water,  on  its 
rocks  and  river-beds ;  the  voyagers  across  that 
inland  sea  where  the  smoke  of  lonely  camp-fires 
goes  up  from  wagon -roads  that  were  once  hunt 
er's  trails,  and  trails  that  were  once  the  tracks  of 
buffalo.  There  were  men  seen  at  intervals  of 
many  months  in  its  streets,  whom  the  desert  and 
the  mountains  called,  as  the  sea  calls  the  men  of 


A  COMMUNITY  OF   SPECIALISTS.  31 

the    coast   towns.     It   was   a   port  of  the  wilder 
ness. 

The  arrivals  due  that  Saturday  night  were 
seeking  their  dusty  moorings.  Heavily  loaded 
freighters  were  lurching  in,  every  mule  straining 
in  his  collar,  every  trace  taut  and  quivering. 
Express-wagons  of  lighter  tonnage  took  the  dust 
of  the  freighters,  until  the  width  of  the  road  gave 
their  square-trotting  draught-horses  a  chance  to 
swing  out  and  pass.  In  and  out  among  the  craft 
of  heavier  burden,  shuffled  the  small,  tough 
bronchos.  Their  riders  were  for  the  most  part 
light  built,  like  their  horses,  with  a  bearing  at 
once  alert  and  impassive.  They  were  young 
men,  notwithstanding  a  prevailing  look  of  care 
and  stolid  endurance,  due  in  some  cases,  possibly, 
to  the  dust-laden  hollows  under  the  sun-wearied 
eyes,  and  to  that  haggardness  of  aspect  which 
goes  with  a  beard  of  a  week's  growth,  a  flannel 
shirt  loosely  buttoned  about  a  sunburned  throat, 
and  a  temporary  estrangement  from  soap  and 
water.  These  were  the  doughty  privateersmen, 
returning  with  a  convoy  of  pack-animals  from  the 
valley  of  the  Gunnison  or  the  Clearwater,  or  the 
tragic  hunting-grounds  of  the  Indian  Reserva 
tion. 


32 

Taking  the  footpath  way,  beside  his  loaded 
donkey  trudged  the  humble  "  grub-stake,"  or 
the  haggard-eyed  charcoal-burner  from  his  smok 
ing  camp  in  the  nearest  timber,  while  far  up  on 
the  mountain,  distinct  in  the  reflected  glow  of 
sunset,  a  puff  of  white  dust  appeared  from 
moment  to  moment,  following  the  curves  of  the 
road,  where  the  passenger  coach  was  making  its 
best  speed,  with  brakes  hard  down,  on  the  home- 
grade  from  the  summit  of  the  pass. 

Mr.  Newbold  and  his  daughter  entered  the 
town  by  a  side  street,  and  wheeled  their  horses, 
at  a  sharp  trot,  into  the  main  avenue,  a  few 
blocks  above  the  Wiltsie  House.  The  avenue 
was  straight  and  wide,  as  befits  the  avenue  of 
the  hopeful  future ;  but  the  houses  were  the 
houses  of  the  uncertain  present.  They  were 
seldom  more  than  two  stories  in  height,  mis 
cellaneous  in  character,  homogeneous  in  ugliness, 
crude  in  newness  of  paint  or  rawness  of  boards 
without  paint.  There  were  frequent  breaks  in 
the  perspective  of  their  roofs,  where  a  vacant  lot 
awaited  its  tenant,  or  the  tenant  awaited  his 
house.  There  were  tents  doing  duty  for  houses; 
there  were  skeleton  structures  hastily  clothing 
themselves  with  bricks  and  mortar  that  meantime 


A  COMMUNITY  OF   SPECIALISTS.  33 

impeded  the  sidewalk.  One-half  of  the  street  was 
torn  up  for  the  laying  of  gas-pipes,  and  crossings 
were  occasionally  blockaded  by  the  bulk  of  a 
house  on  rollers,  which  night  had  overtaken  in 
its  snail-like  progress.  The  passing  crowd  was  a 
crowd  distinguished  by  a  predominance  of  boots 
and  hats  —  dusty  or  muddy  boots,  and  hats  with 
a  look  of  preternatural  age  or  of  startling  new 
ness.  There  was  a  dearth  of  skirts ;  and  these, 
when  they  appeared,  were  given  a  respectful,  an 
almost  humorously  respectful,  share  of  the  side 
walk.  The  crowd  went  its  way  with  none  of  that 
smart  unanimity  of  movement  which  characterizes 
the  up-town  and  down-town  march  of  feet  trained 
to  the  pavement.  It  slouched  and  straggled  and 
stared,  and  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  common 
way,  and  greeted  its  friends,  and  vociferated  its 
sentiments,  and  exhibited  its  ore-specimens  of 
fabulous  promise,  regardless  of  incommoded  pass 
ers.  It  was  invariably  good-natured. 

Two  distinct  groups  were  forming  in  the  street : 
one,  small  and  shifting,  in  front  of  the  Wiltsie 
House,  expecting  the  hourly  arrival  of  the  stage ; 
and  one  larger,  more  persevering  and  disorderly, 
on  the  corner  opposite  the  Variety  Theatre, 
where  a  band  of  music  was  playing  airs  of  a 


34  JOHN  BODEWTN'S  TESTIMONY. 

rather  belated  popularity.  Spanning  the  street, 
between  the  upper  windows  of  the  theatre  and 
the  opposite  roof,  a  tight  rope  was  stretched 
against  the  fading  flush  of  sunset,  and  a  Mad 
emoiselle  Cordova  (whose  colors  were  also  fading, 
but  were  capable  of  resuscitation  for  the  evening's 
performance)  was  advertised  to  make  her  debut  in 
the  camp  upon  this  rope.  Here  the  expectant 
evening  stir  reached  a  climax  of  excitement,  and 
beyond  it  suddenly  ceased.  In  fact,  the  town 
ceased.  There  was  nothing  more  but  the  stage 
on  which  its  shabby  little  drama  was  set.  Its 
lights  were  lowered ;  the  wind  of  evening,  of 
coolness  and  vast  space,  drew  through  its  lofty 
wings.  Ranging  down  the  valley,  peak  beyond 
peak,  the  mountains  lifted  their  illumined  heads. 

"The  sunset  is  gone!"  Josephine  exclaimed; 
"  but  what  a  night  —  oh,  what  a  night !  Papa, 
do  look  at  the  mountains  ! "  she  shouted,  trying  to 
catch  his  ear  in  the  noise  of  the  street. 

"  Never  mind  the  mountains,  —  look  out  for 
that  freighter  !  "  her  father  replied.  "  You  can't 
ride  here  as  if  you  were  on  Wabash  Avenue." 

A  little  later  she  tried  again,  "  Papa,  where  do 
you  suppose  they  all  come  from  ?  " 

They  had  halted  at  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk, 


A  COMMUNITY  OF   SPECIALISTS.  35 

and  Josephine  was  gazing  around  her  at  the  mov 
ing  mass  of  male  humanity,  while  her  father 
dismounted  with  circumspection. 

"  Oh,  they  are  the  superfluous  people  from 
everywhere." 

"  Why,  of  course  !  Just  like  us.  I  never  felt 
more  superfluous  in  my  life  !  " 

Laughing  as  she  leaned  from  her  saddle,  with 
her  hands  on  her  father's  shoulders,  she  dropped 
lightly  to  the  ground,  and  the  door  inscribed 
"  Ladies'  Entrance  Wiltsie  House  "  closed  behind 
her. 

The  Newbolds  usually  dined  late,  on  a  theory 
that  by  so  doing  they  escaped  the  greatest  crowd, 
in  the  only  dining-room  of  the  hotel.  Josephine 
had  changed  her  dress  and  was  moving  about  in 
the  solitude  of  the  ladies'  parlor,  looking  at  the 
desolate  chromos  on  its  walls,  and  sitting  in 
unquiet  attitudes  on  its  blue-velvet  chairs,  when 
her  father  entered.  He  was  looking  fatigued,  and 
with  the  tired  expression  the  lines  of  his  face 
lapsed  into  a  heaviness  which  emphasized  the 
contrast  between  father  and  daughter  as  they 
stood  opposite  each  other.  Mr.  Newbold's  pro 
portions  were  conspicuously  inelegant,  while  Jose 
phine  stood  lightly  on  her  feet,  her  small  dark 


36  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

head  nearly  as  high  as  her  father's.  Her  low 
browed,  round-cheeked  face,  with  its  long  sweep 
of  eyebrow,  short,  full  mouth,  and  rich  coloring, 
would  have  been  excessively  pretty,  wanting  its 
candid  brightness  of  expression  and  the  dark  eyes 
which  gave  it  dignity.  With  these,  it  was  quite 
enough  to  have  convinced  Bode  win  of  the  fatuity 
of  local  prejudices  where  girls  are  concerned. 

Mr.  Newbold  had  entered  the  room  preoccupied 
with  an  idea  which  had  struck  him  as  a  good  one 
from  several  points  of  view. 

"  Josephine,"  he  began,  in  pursuance  of  this  idea, 
"  wouldn't  it  rather  amuse  you  to  meet  Bodewin  ?  " 

Josephine  stared  at  him. 

"  He  is  one  of  the  types  of  the  place,  you 
know,"  he  continued,  resolutely.  "  Not  the  red- 
flannel  shirt  and  revolver  style,  but  something  a 
little  more  subtle,  as  you  would  say.  A  kind  of 
1  a  Yankee  lotus-eater." 

Josephine  was  struck  by  a  somewhat  awkward 
deliberation  in  her  father's  manners.  The  word 
Yankee  coming  from  him  also  displeased  her  in  a 
way  she  felt  to  be  childish.  Her  mother  and  her 
mother's  people  had  been  Yankees,  so  called.  As 
she  remained  silent,  her  father  added  at  ran 
dom  :  — 


A  COMMUNITY   OF   SPECIALISTS.  37 

"  You  are  a  student  of  human  nature,  you 
know." 

"  I,  papa  ?  "  Josephine  laughed  uncomfortably. 
"  What  put  that  into  your  head  ?  All  the  human 
nature  I  ever  tried  to  study  was  my  own,  which  is 
certainly  human.  I  am  not  looking  for  types ;  I 
shouldn't  know  one  if  I  saw  it.  If  you  mean, 
would  I  like  you  to  introduce  Mr.  Bodewin  to  me, 
no,  papa,  thank  you,  decidedly  I  would  not.  I 
hate  to  make  acquaintances  in  that  premeditated 
way." 

"  Well,  well !  It's  hardly  likely  you  would 
know  Bodewin  —  I  only  thought  he  might  help 
3rou  to  pass  the  time  while  we  are  here,  and  the 
chance  of  talking  with  a  nice,  bright  girl  in  a 
place  like  this  would  be  a  boon  to  any  fellow." 

"  He  has  not  shown  himself  very  eager  for  the 
chance,"  said  Josephine.  "  Besides,  papa,  if  he  is 
going  to  be  so  disagreeable  about  your  lawsuit,  I 
don't  know  why  we  should  be  civil  to  him." 

Mr.  Newbold  reflected  that  a  little  timely 
civility  might  go  far  to  overcome  Bode  win's  dis- 
agreeableness,  but  he  wisely  kept  this  reflection 
to  himself.  Josephine  was  unsophisticated,  as  all 
men,  however  wise  in  their  generation,  like  their 
women  to  be. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MRS.  CRAIG'S  LITTLE  DINNER. 

"WHEN  will  you  come  up?"  Mr.  Craig  asked 
of  Mr.  Newbold  the  next  afternoon,  as  his  client 
was  leaving  the  office  of  Joseph  Craig,  counsel  for 
the  Eagle  Bird  against  Lee  and  Harkins.  "  We 
want  you  to  come  before  the  Government  Survey 
moves  into  its  new  quarters.  The  party  are  in 
camp  now  in  the  woods  back  of  our  cabin.  There 
is  no  better  company  this  side  of  the  range  than 
you'll  get  round  their  camp-fire  of  an  evening. 
No  ceremony — pot  of  beans  or  oatmeal  or  what 
not,  boiling  on  the  coals  for  to-morrow's  breakfast 
—  boys  in  their  buckskins  —  not  one  of  them  but 
your  daughter  might  dance  with,  or  dine  with, 
or  gallop  across  country  with,  as  she  happened  to 
find  them.  They're  liable  to  turn  up  almost 
anywhere,  those  fellows  —  at  the  swell  clubs 
in  New  York  or  London,  or  the  President's 
receptions,  or  digging  their  way  up  some  moun 
tain-peak  above  snow-line." 

38 


MRS.  CRAIG'S  LITTLE  DINNER.  39 

"  I  hope  I  shall  never  meet  any  of  them  there ! " 
Mr.  Newbold  interjected. 

"No,"  laughed  Mr.  Craig,  "it  isn't  likely  you 
will.  I  never  met  any  of  them  there  myself. 
Well,  when  will  you  come  ?  Thursday  ?  Thurs 
day  then.  We  are  only  camping  within  four 
walls  ourselves.  We  can't  ask  you  to  dine." 

"We  can  hardly  be  said  to  dine  at  the  Wiltsie 
House." 

"  No,  it's  a  good  time  to  take  you,  after  a  fort 
night  at  the  Wiltsie.  You  must  have  forgotten 
how  the  flesh-pots  tasted.  Tell  Miss  Newbold  to 
put  on  a  pair  of  stout  boots,  and  after  dinner  we 
will  go  over  to  the  Camp  of  the  Geologists  and 
get  Hillbury  talking,  if  we  can." 

"My  daughter  will  be  delighted.  She  gets 
restless  these  moonlight  nights,  because  she 
cannot  be  out-of-doors.  It  is  too  bad  to  be  shut 
up  in  a  third-rate  hotel  with  such  a  country  as 
this  around  us.  /don't  know  where  to  take  her. 
I'm  half  tempted  sometimes  to  give  the  young 
fellows  round  here  a  chance  to  amuse  her.  I'm 
not  much  of  a  rider,  or  much  of  a  climber,  myself. 
She  wants  to  get  up  on  top  some  of  those  peaks, 
and  she  wants  to  go  down  in  a  mine." 

"  Of  course  she  does ;    and  you  can't  find   any 


40  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

-  better  fellows  to  trust  her  with  than  Hillbury's 
crowd.  If  she  wants  a  chaperon,  my  wife  will  go 
along  with  her  any  time  you  like  to  get  up'  a 
party." 

"  It's  very  kind  of  you,  Craig,  I'm  sure."  Mr. 
Newbold  had  buttoned  his  coat  and  taken  up  his 
hat  and  cane.  He  stood,  tapping  the  one  against 
the  other,  while  Mr.  Craig  spoke  to  a  clerk  who 
had  stepped  to  the  door  of  his  private  office. 
"  How  about  Bodewin  ? "  he  said,  as  the  door 
closed  and  Mr.  Craig  turned  back  to  his  desk. 

"  Bodewin  ?  There's  nothing  new  about  Bode 
win  that  I  know  of." 

"  Have  we  got  to  give  him  up  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  We  can't  give  him  up.  There's 
the  subpoena,  when  we're  ready  for  it." 

"I  don't  like  that.  I  don't  think  we'll  gain 
anything  by  it.  Now,  Sammis  has  an  idea  in  his 
head  once  in  a  while.  He  says  it's  no  use  to  try 
the  subpoena  on  Bodewin.  He'd  manage  to  leak 
out;  or,  as  he  puts  it,  an  unwilling  witness  is 
worse  than  none." 

"  This  is  not  a  question  of  verbal  testimony," 
Mr.  Craig  rejoined.  "Bodewin  can  be  required 
to  produce  certain  papers  which  he  is  pretty  well 
understood  to  have  had  in  his  possession  when 


41 

Harkins  first  made  his  claim,  and  it  was  known 
you  would  resist  it.  Now,  if  he  has  the  papers, 
that  is  all  we  want.  If  he  has  destroyed  them 
since  the  dispute  about  the  records  came  up,  he 
must  have  had  some  reason  for  doing  so.  He  can 
be  required  to  give  it.  Don't  you  see  ?  His  un 
willingness  is  a  strong  point  in  our  favor  —  the 
more  obvious  the  unwillingness,  the  stronger  the 
point.  He  does  not  intend  to  appear  against 
Harkins  —  that  I'm  tolerably  sure  of.  Money 
won't  fetch  him.  There  is  some  personal  hitch." 

"  I'd  like  to  know  what  it  is." 

"  So  would  I.  But  I  don't  think  we  ever  will 
know  —  from  Bodewin." 

"  Has  Bodewin  any  '  pard,'  as  you  say  out  here, 
or  any  intimate  friend  in  the  camp  ?  " 

"I  don't  think  he  has  any  intimate  friends  here,  i, 
except  Hillbury  of  the  Survey.     He  was  on  the 
Survey  himself,  under  Wheeler.     As  for  a  4  pard,' 
Bodewin  is  a  gentlemen,  as  you  say  back  there." 

"What  I  am  getting  at,"  said  Mr.  Newbold, 
"is  whether  Bodewin  is  among  his  friends  here, 
where  he  would  be  likely  to  talk  about  his  affairs 
now  and  then  when  he  felt  communicative,  or 
whether  he  is  shut  up  in  himself.  According  to 
my  small  experience  of  men,  I  believe  that  almost 


42  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

every  man,  even  the  most  reticent,  once  in  a 
while,  perhaps,  will  talk  to  some  one.  The  shyer 
he  is  and  the  longer  he  has  been  locked  up,  the 
more  likely  he  is  to  open  out  to  the  right  one,  if 
the  right  one  happens  to  come  along  at  the  right 
time.  Now,  with  Bodewin,  if  we  could  get  at 
his  scruple,  whatever  it  is,  it  would  be  a  great 
point  gained.  I  don't  like  this  subpoena.  I  don't 
like  it  at  all  —  with  a  man  like  him.  You  don't 
know  what  turn  he  might  take.  It's  too  much  like 
a  Jack-in-the-box  —  you  open  the  box,  and  the  thing 
is  out  in  spite  of  you.  The  right  way  is  to  get  at 
his  reasons,  whatever  they  are,  and  meet  them  — 
talk  him  out  of  them.  But  you  can't  argue  with  a 
man  when  you  don't  know  your  premises." 

"  Mr.  Newbold,  I  don't  know  what  influence  you 
may  have  with  Bodewin,  but  I  can't  flatter  my 
self,  from  what  I  know  of  him,  that  I'm  the  right 
one  to  induce  him  to  unburden  himself." 

"  Nor  I  either,  my  dear  sir.  Now,  between  us 
both,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  were  a 'case  for  a 
woman." 

"D a  woman  !"  Mr.  Craig  now  turned 

from  his  desk  and  gave  his  fullest  attention  to  his 
client's  rambling  remarks.  "What  woman  do 
you  propose  to  introduce  into  the  case  ?  " 


MES.  CRAIG'S  LITTLE  DINNER.  43 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Newbold,  disconcertedly,  "I 
haven't  any  in  view  at  this  moment.  But  I  sup 
pose  Bodewin  is  not  the  kind  of  man  to  be  influ 
enced  by  a  woman  who  wasn't  a  —  well  —  a 
lady." 

"  Oh !  If  it  is  a  case  for  a  lady's  influence,  you 
will  hardly  need  any  legal  adviser." 

Mr.  Craig  turned  back  to  his  desk  and  began 
to  pull  about  his  papers. 

"  My  dear  Craig,  —  hold  on  !  You're  taking 
me  too  seriously  altogether,  I  assure  you.  It  is 
of  no  consequence  —  only  a  suggestion.  I  hate 
to  leave  the  camp  with  the  thing  in  the  shape  it's 
in  now." 

"Leave  the  thing  to  me,  Mr.  Newbold,  —  and 
leave  the  woman  out  of  it  if  you  please.  I  think 
myself,  you'd  much  better  stay  and  see  it  through. 
You'll  be  better  satisfied,  you  know." 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  right." 

"  I  wish  you  would  stay  until  after  the  trial. 
You'll  see  some  fun.  Mining  law  is  peculiar," 
Mr.  Craig  called  after  his  client.  He  had  not 
taken  the  trouble  to  see  him  to  the  door. 

Mr0  Newbold  had  been  advised,  in  his  choice  of 
counsel,  to  employ  a  man  of  local  knowledge  and 
reputation  rather  than  one  more  widely  known  in 


44  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

the  profession.  Each  State,  each  mining  district 
even,  had  its  own  mining  laws,  and  few  busy 
lawyers,  however  well  read,  could  keep  informed 
of  all  these  various  "local  regulations  and  cus 
toms." 

Mr.  Craig  was  a  small  man,  too  nervous  and 
irritable  for  a  lawyer,  with  a  large  head,  a  com 
plexion  of  reddish  fairness,  and  a  peremptory, 
careless  manner,  cultivated  in  provincial  West 
ern  circles.  He  had  been  educated  at  an  Indiana 
college,  and  going  East  soon  afterwards,  on  the 
usual  pilgrimage  which  the  complacent  young 
West  makes,  at  least  once  in  its  life,  to  the  old, 
sad,  unprosperous  homes  of  its  conservative  East 
ern  relatives,  —  critical  even  in  their  decline,  — 
had  fallen  in  love  with  a  second  or  third  cousin, 
a  surprisingly  lively  young  person  for  the  only 
girl  left  in  a  large,  elderly,  and  peculiar  family 
connection. 

It  still  remained  a  wholesome  mystery  to  him 
how  he  had  managed  to  persuade  this  young 
woman  to  go  West  with  him.  She  had  seemed 
to  him  the  cleverest  girl  he  had  ever  met,  and 
the  most  insensible  to  masculine  attractions.  She 
had  laughed  at  his  little  egotisms  and  provincial 
isms,  and  at  a  later  stage  of  their  acquaintance 


MRS.  CRAIG'S  LITTLE  DINNER.  45 

had  fiercely  maintained  the  superiority  of  the 
most  commonplace  Eastern  existence  over  the  \ , 
most  triumphant  career  life  could  offer  west  of  j 
the  Little  Miami.  And  yet  she  had  married  him. 
Her  friends  considered  that  she  had  thrown  her 
self  away,  both  as  to  the  man  and  his  circumstan 
ces  ;  for  even  in  the  most  figurative  sense  Joseph 
Craig  could  hardly  be  regarded  as  a  type  of  that 
vast  material  prosperity  of  the  West  his  Eastern 
relatives  found,  in  theory,  so  revolting.  Mrs. 
Craig  had  expected  that  she  would  make  a  great 
change  in  her  husband,  if  not  in  her  husband's 
circumstances.  She  would  make  him  wear  darker 
clothes  and  smaller  hats,  and  reform  him  of  a 
habit  of  leaning  on  the  hind  legs  of  his  chair,  and 
of  passing  his  hand  over  his  hair  in  the  pauses  of 
conversation.  She  would  make  him  see  the  logic 
of  free  trade,  and  persuade  him  to  read  Emerson  V 
and  Herbert  Spencer  instead  of  so  many  news-  *'' 
papers.  She  would  insist  upon  less  prominence 
in  his  final  r's.  They  had  now  been  married  nine 
years,  but  no  change  as  yet  was  evident  in  Craig, 
except  that  he  was  growing  stout  and  slightly 
bald.  Mrs.  Craig's  complexion  had  lost  its  deli 
cate  New  England  bloom  in  the  strong  Western 
suns  and  winds;  she  had  grown  thin  instead  of 


46  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

stout,  and  her  soft  frail  light  locks  were  scarcely 
abundant  enough  to  make  the  small  low  knot 
which  was  fashion's  modest  demand  at  that  time. 
But  she  met  all  changes  for  the  worse  in  her 
appearance  with  rather  a  defiant  honesty,  secure 
in  the  conviction  that  "Joe  "  liked  her  just  as  she 
was.  She  was  as  lively  and  inconsistent  as  ever, 
as  vociferously  opposed  to  her  husband  in  theory, 
and  as  vehemently  his  partisan  in  practice.  She 
was  restless,  merry,  moody,  wearing  herself  out 
over  her  work  or  her  play ;  overestimating  or  un 
derestimating  her  friends  and  her  own  circumstan 
ces;  enthusiastic  over  her  children's  promise  or 
in  despair  over  their  performance.  Mr.  Craig  had 
that  immense  respect  for  his  profession  that  an 
unknown  Western  lawyer  with  a  decidedly  unlegal 
turn  of  mind  might  be  expected  to  have.  This 
was  one  of  his  idiosyncrasies  which  his  wife  had 
never  laughed  at  him  about.  Clever  and  keen 
as  she  was,  she  had  never  yet  seen  her  husband 
quite  as  others  saw  him,  and  happily  took  as 
serious  a  view  of  him  professionally  as  he  did 
of  himself. 

Mr.  Craig  was  absolutely,  almost  vindictively, 
honest.  He  had  many,  in  fact  most,  of  the  para 
mount  virtues,  but  he  was  one  of  those  men  who 


MRS.  CRAIG'S  LITTLE  DINNER.  47 

are  eiected  to  be  poor,  to  be  unpopular,  and  to  be 
held  at  less  than  their  actual  worth. 

The  Craig  household,  like  many  another  on  the 
frontier,  was  conducted  on  the  theory  of  "  catas- 
trophism  "  rather  than  that  of  "  uniform  law."  The 
dinner  to  the  Newbolds  happened  to  occur  on  one 
of  its  days  of  "convulsive  upheaval."  Mrs.  Craig's 
butcher  had  betrayed  her,  her  greengrocer  had 
"gone  back  on  her,"  her  cook  had  stabbed  her 
to  the  heart's  core  of  her  housewifery  pride. 
Finally,  her  eldest  boy,  a  three-year-old,  had 
tumbled  into  the  hydraulic  ditch  which  flowed 
past  the  house,  —  at  a  temperature  of  melted 
snow,  —  had  been  dragged,  dripping  and  gasping, 
into  the  house,  about  twenty  minutes  before 
the  dinner-hour,  stripped  of  his  clothes,  hastily 
scolded,  and  rubbed  down  with  brandy  and 
rough  towels  in  front  of  a  scorching  fire  in  the 
dining,  reception,  and  only  living  room  of  the 
house,  and  tucked  into  his  bed  as  the  guests  ar 
rived  at  the  door.  The  maid-of-all-work  opened 
the  door,  while  Mrs.  Craig  swept  up  the  towels  in 
one  arm,  and  retreated  to  her  bedroom,  holding 
the  boy's  wet  garments  at  arm's  length.  With 
scarlet  cheeks,  a  rather  dubious  smile  of  welcome, 
and  with  an  irrepressible  odor  of  brandy  per- 


48 

vading  her  garments,  she  appeared  before  her 
guests  a  moment  later,  shutting  out  a  burst  of  in 
fant  wrath  and  dolor,  as  she  closed  the  door  be 
hind  her.  The  soft-hearted  Irish  servant,  who 
was  putting  the  last  touches  to  the  table,  was  so 
distracted  by  these  sounds  that  she  could  hardly 
be  induced  to  remember  she  had  other  duties 
besides  those  of  consolation.  The  nurse  had 
been  sent  to  the  camp  to  inquire  into  the  non- 
appearance  of  the  fruit  which  had  been  ordered 
for  dessert. 

It  was  an  inauspicious  beginning  to  an  ex 
tremely  bad  little  dinner.  Fitful  bursts  of  gayety 
from  the  hostess  alternated  with  sudden  silences, 
during  which  her  eyes  wandered  anxiously  towards 
her  husband's  face.  Coffee  was  served  at  last, 
and  the  company  turned  its  chairs  from  the  table 
to  the  fire.  Mr.  Craig  went  in  search  of  a  box  of 
cigars,  and  the  evening  cleared  up  with  a  promise 
of  cheerfulness  if  not  of  brilliancy. 

There  was  still  the  visit  to  Mr.  Hillbury's  camp 
to  redeem  the  failure  of  the  dinner.  Mrs.  Craig 
perhaps  overvalued  the  picturesque  in  the  absence 
of  the  comfortable,  but  she  had  been  moderately 
comfortable  all  her  life,  and  had  only  since  her 
marriage  begun  to  be  even  remotely  picturesque. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE   CAMP-FIRE. 

THE  Craig  cabin  stood  on  a  narrow  peninsula 
of  roughly  cleared  ground,  with  the  pine  woods 
behind  it.  It  was  characteristic  of  mining  no 
menclature  that  the  stream  of  pure  swift-running 
water,  which  formed  this  peninsula,  taken  from 
the  infant  Arkansas,  should  be  called  a  "  ditch." 
The  path  which  ran  beside  it  was  called,  in  the 
same  concise  nomenclature,  the  "  ditch  walk."  It 
was  a  favorite  promenade  of  the  camp.  It  com 
manded  a  view  of  the  sunset  behind  the  pine 
woods,  of  the  camp  in  the  gulch,  and  of  the 
mountains  which  rose  beyond,  taking  upon  their 
worn,  sphinx-like  faces  the  sun's  descending  glow. 
Mrs.  Craig  had  walked  off  more  than  one  impera 
tive  fit  of  weeping  there — nervous  weeping, 
without  assignable  cause,  unless  it  might  be  a 
dumb  awe  and  terror  of  her  surroundings,  as  if 
several  layers  of  the  earth's  crust  had  been  torn 
away,  and  she,  with  a  modern  woman's  oversensi- 

49 


50 

tiveness  and  complicated  needs,  had  been  dropped 
upon  one  of  the  primeval  strata,  with  huge  dumb 
forms  of  unknown  life  around  her.  The  moun 
tains  themselves  had,  to  her  morbid  fancy,  an  op 
pressive  individuality.  They  intruded  upon  her, 
in  the  midst  of  her  small,  subtle  joys  and  pains  of 
to-day,  with  their  heart-breaking  stolidity  and 
their  immense  past.  They  took  the  meaning  out 
of  her  efforts,  and  made  them  seem  of  no  avail. 
When  she  tried  to  express  these  fancies  to  her 
husband,  he  received  them  into  his  masculine  con 
sciousness  as  a  phase  of  her  own  idiosyncrasy, 
in  spite  of  her  assurance  that  every  other  woman 
in  the  camp  probably  had  the  same.  That  even 
ing,  as  she  kept  the  path  by  Josephine  in  the 
moonlight,  she  had  no  fancies  that  were  not 
cheerful.  Perhaps  it  came  of  the  contact  with  a 
younger,  stronger,  and  simpler  woman's  nature. 
Perhaps  she  was  healthfully  tired  from  her 
domestic  difficulties,  and  enjoying  that  slumber  of 
nerves  which  comes  with  honest  bodily  fatigue. 
The  mountains  looked  to  her  only  solemn  and 
beautiful,  and  were  simply  a  noble  range  of  peaks 
guarding  a  valley  filled  with  moonlit  haze. 
The  moon,  peering  behind  the  pine  trunks,  had 
no  expression  beyond  that  of  the  full  moon,  half 


THE   CAMP-FIRE.  51 

an  hour  risen.  Under  her  sense  of  the  beauty 
around  her  was  the  happy  thought  of  a  wife  who 
sees  a  remarkable  proof  of  her  husband's  goodness 
in  his  least  and  most  natural  act.  There  was  not 
another  man  in  the  world,  she  felt  sure,  who 
would  not  have  been  furious  over  such  a  gro 
tesque  failure  as  her  dinner  had  been.  She  hur 
ried  Josephine  gayly  along,  and  now  they  stopped 
on  the  edge  of  the  wood  to  wait  for  the  men,  who 
had  followed  more  slowly.  A  sound  of  wind 
came  from  the  gulch,  distant  at  first,  creeping 
from  tree  to  tree,  making  a  sudden  hurry  and 
shivering  rush  in  the  trees  above  their  heads,  and 
stealing  away  again  down  the  dim  slope  towards 
the  valley. 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  camp,"  she  said,  in  reply  to  a 
question  from  Josephine.  "  Take  care  of  those 
pine-stubs  —  you  cannot  see  them  with  the 
light  in  your  eyes  ;  won't  you  take  hold  of  my 
hand?" 

"Won't  you  take  hold  of  mine?"  laughed 
Josephine.  "  I  am  ever  so  much  taller  than  you." 

"Yes,  but  I  know  the  ground.  I  walk  here 
hours  and  hours  by  myself.  There  is  no  one  in 
camp  all  day  except  the  cook,  who  is  generally 
asleep  in  one  of  the  wagons ;  but  the  tents,  and 


52  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

the  mules  stamping  and  munching,  make  it  seem 

less  lonely  in  the  woods.     That  is  Mr.  Hillbury 

—  the  dark  head  against  the  tent-curtain;  he  is 

the   chief  of  this   party,   you  know.      You  must 

1  notice   his   buckskins.     They  are    Indian-tanned, 

made  by  a  London   tailor.     We    have    to    amuse 

ourselves    with   these   little   contrasts  —  they  are 

the  spice  of  life  out  here." 

Mr.  Hillbury,  hearing  the  footsteps  and  voices 
approaching,  came  out  to  meet  his  guests,  saying, 
"Who  are  these  in  bright  array?"  He  looked 
extremely  well  in  his  suit  of  buckskin,  which  was 
of  a  light-gray  color,  toned  by  use,  and  set  off  his 
dark  complexion  as  if  chosen  for  that  purpose 
alone.  There  w^,s  the  usual  indistinct  mention  of 
names  as  the  group  of  young  men  around  the  fire 
rose  to  their  feet.  The  camp  lamented  its 
deficiencies  in  the  matter  of  seats.  There  was 
but  one  camp-stool,  which,  both  ladies  declining, 
was  bestowed  by  acclamation  on  Mr.  Newbold. 
"  I'm  the  oldest  and  heaviest,"  he  declared,  and 
accepted  it  on  that  basis.  The  other  seats  were 
sections  of  pine  logs  witl^boards  nailed  across  the 
top.  Mrs.  Craig,  seeing  Josephine  balancing  her 
self  on  one  of  these  inverted  pedestals,  called  to 
her  to  come  and  share  with  her  a  camp-blanket 


THE   CAMP-FIRE.  53 

spread  on  the  ground.  A  man  reclining  on  one 
elbow  near  them,  with  his  feet  to  the  fire  and  his 
face  in  deep  shadow,  gathered  himself  into  a 
sitting  posture  and  gave  them  good-evening. 

"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Bodewin ;  were  you  here 
when  we  came  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Craig,  leaning  for 
ward  and  speaking  across  Josephine's  lap. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Craig.  I  got  up  and  made  my  bow 
with  the  rest,  but  the  fire  was  between  us." 

"I  did  not  see  you,"  said  Mrs.  Craig — "Miss 
Newbold,  this  is  Mr.  Bodewin." 

Bodewin  moved  nearer,  first  knocking  the  hot 
ashes  out  of  a  brier-wood  pipe  and  thrusting  it, 
bowl  downward,  into  a  breast-pocket  of  his  coat. 
"  Poor  Mr.  Bodewin  ! "  said  Mrs.  Craig,  noting 
the  action  sympathetically.  "As  the  wife  of  a 
smoker  I  can  feel  for  you.  You  had  found  such  a 
nice  place  to  finish  your  pipe  in  silence  and  in 
peace ;  now  we  have  interrupted  your  pipe  and 
broken  your  silence." 

"  There  is  always  something  to  be  thankful  for, 
Mrs.  Craig,"  Bodewin  replied.  "  You  might  have 
interrupted  the  silence  and  broken  the  pipe." 

Josephine  was  listening  less  to  Bodewin's 
words  than  to  his  voice,  low-pitched  and  rather 
languid,  with  an  accent  that  was  negligently 


54  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

pure.  His  face  she  could  not  see  without  turning, 
too  evidently,  to  look  at  him. 

Perceiving  that  she  had  a  neighbor  on  her 
right,  Mrs.  Craig  began  talking  to  him,  and  the 
group  thus  divided  itself. 

"  How  you  must  enjoy  this  life  ! "  said  Jose 
phine,  filling  the  pause  with  the  first  words  she 
could  think  of. 

Before  answering,  Bodewin  deliberately  shifted 
his  position  so  that  it  commanded  a  view  of  her 
face,  one-half  of  its  beauty  revealed  in  the  fire 
light,  the  other  suggested  in  shadow. 

"  Do  you  mean  the  life  of  the  Survey?"  he 
asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

"  It  is  a  good  life,  no  doubt,  but  it  is  not 
mine." 

"  I  thought  you  were  of  this  party." 

Bodewin  fancied  that  he  had  lost  a  degree  of 
her  interest  by  this  admission.  He  could  see  her 
bright  eyes  exploring  the  circle  of  dimly  seen 
faces  around  the  camp-fire,  and  doubted  not  she 
was  already  idealizing  their  owners  in  true  girl- 
fashion,  and  imparting  to  the  life  they  led  all  the 
picturesqueness  she  found  in  its  accidental  sur 
roundings. 


THE  CAMP-FIKB.  55 

"No,"  he  repeated,  with  his  lazy  intonation,  "I 
am  not  a  mining  geologist,  nor  a  physical  geolo 
gist,  nor  a  geological  physicist,  nor  even  a  super 
numerary  on  board  wages." 

"  That  is  what  I  should  like  to  be —  that  last." 

"  Why,  if  you  please  ?  " 

"It  must  be  so  easy  to  earn  board  wages  — 
especially  —  " 

"  When  the  board  is  rather  bad  ?  " 

"They  are  not  wildly  luxurious,  are  they?"  she 
whispered. 

"  No  ;  the  pursuit  of  science  under  government 
is  not  a  luxurious  calling.  However,  it  is  but  fair 
to  the  government  to  say  that  this  is  but  a 
temporary  arrangement.  The  Survey  goes  under 
cover  next  week,  and  I  dare  say  they  will  have  a 
few  chairs." 

"  Mr.  Bode  win,  haven't  you  some  capital  letters 
after  your  name  ?  " 

"  After  my  name,  Miss  Newbold  ?  When  had 
my  name  the  honor  to  be  seen  by  you  ?  " 

"I  think  it  was  —  about  two  weeks  ago  —  in  a 
letter  to  you  from  my  father,"  she  hesitated,  con 
scious  of  a  somewhat  awkward  reason  for  the 
question  she  had  asked  —  "  and  the  letters  were 
M.  E." 


56  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"I  believe  I  am  entitled  to  C.  E.  after  my 
name,  but  the  M.  E.  must  have  been  a  friendly 
flight  of  imagination  on  your  father's  part." 

"  Are  you  not  a  mining  expert  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  so  called.  But  I  believe  there  is 
no  such  title  in  the  back  of  the  dictionary." 

"Who  is  talking  about  dictionaries  by  the  light 
of  a  camp-fire  ? "  Mrs.  Craig  exclaimed,  adding 
her  profuse  treble  to  the  duet.  "  Are  you  begin 
ning  at  the  fountain-head  of  conversation  in  the 
English  language.?  If  Miss  Newbold  were  a  Bos 
ton  girl  I  should  be  sure  she  had  a  dictionary - 
a  German  dictionary — in  her  trunk,  even  if  it 
crowded  out  her  best  bonnet." 

"  I'm  sure  there's  no  best  bonnet  in  my  trunk," 
said  Josephine.     "  Perhaps  I  ought  to  be  ashamed 
to   say  I  brought  but  two  books   with  me,  and 
those  I  can  read  without  the  aid  of  a  dictionary  — 
even  an  English  one." 

Mrs.  Craig  thought  the  contents  of  a  traveller's 
trunk  were  next  to  a  biography  of  its  owner. 
"It  represents  his  necessities,  the  things  he  can 
not  leave  behind.  If  we  knew  those  two  books 
Miss  Newbold  chooses  out  of  all  those  she  leaves 
at  home,  we  should  know  Miss  Newbold." 

"  Suppose  she  makes  a  good  choice  but  doesn't 


THE  CAMP-FIRE.  57 

read  the  books  after  she  has  brought  them?"  Jose 
phine  said. 

"  Then  we  should  know  her  aspirations.  They 
are  as  much  a  part  of  us  as  our  necessities, 
surely." 

"  The  part  a  biographer  usually  leaves  out," 
Bodewin  said.  "  How  about  the  traveller  who 
hasn't  necessities  enough  to  fill  a  trunk?  How 
would  you  write  his  biography,  Mrs.  Craig  ?  " 

"Oh,  a  man  who  has  no  trunk  cannot  expect 
to  have  a  biography.  Practically,  he  doesn't 
exist." 

Following  the  silence  Mrs.  Craig's  peremptory 
little  speech  had  made,  Josephine  asked : 

"  Will  you  tell  me,  Mr.  Bodewin,  what  a  min 
ing  expert  is,  granting  that  M.  E.  doesn't  stand 
for  him,  arid  that  he  isn't  in  the  back  of  the  dic 
tionary  ?  " 

"  He  is,  usually,  a  gentleman  who  asks  a  good 
deal  of  money  to  tell  you  how  little  he  knows,  or 
perhaps,  I  might  add,  how  much  less  some  other 
man  knows." 

"  That  is  a  rather  unsatisfactory  description." 

"  A  mining  expert  is  frequently  a.  rather  unsat 
isfactory  person.  But  there  is  a  difference  in 
experts,  as  in  other  people,  and  perhaps  it  is  but 


58  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

fair  to  remember  that  in  forming  their  conclu 
sions  they  have  to  deal  with  Nature  in  some  of  her 
most  unaccountable  and  fantastic  moods.  The 
experience  gained  in  examining  ninety-nine  differ 
ent  formations  may  be  of  no  use  in  the  one-hun 
dredth.  It  is  a  business  no  man  can  say  he  has 
learned  absolutely." 

"  Then  why  do  they  charge  so  much  for  knowl 
edge  which  is  not  knowledge  ?  Is  it  because  of 
the  risk  to  their  reputations  in  saying  a  thing  is 
true,  while  they  really  take  the  chance  of  its 
being  otherwise  ?  " 

"  Hardly  that,  I  should  say,"  said  Bode  win,  a 
little  bored  by  the  effort  to  give  conscientious  an 
swers  to  questions  that  did  not  fit  his  mood,  but 
willing  to  humor  a  pretty  girl's  thirst  for  informa 
tion.  "  An  honest  expert  charges  for  the  respon 
sibility  he  takes  in  giving  such  opinions  as  he  is 
able  to  form  from  his  experience  and  study.  If 
the  responsibility  is  great  he  charges  accord- 
ingly." 

Josephine  was  mentally  referring  Bodewin's 
words  to  her  father's  case,  —  a  case  where  facts 
alone  were  called  for,  not  experience  or  responsi 
bility  or  study ;  and  the  five  thousand  dollars  her 
father  had  offered,  and  Bode  win  had  refused, 


THE   CAMP-FIRE.  59 

would  suggest,  in    spite    of  herself,  a  very  ugly 
word. 

Mr.  Hillbury,  from  the  other  side  of  the  fire, 
leaned  forward  and  threw  on  it  another  log.  The 
wind  veered  and  carried  the  smoke  of  the  aug 
mented  flame  into  their  faces.  They  scrambled, 
laughing,  to  their  feet,  and  retreated,  Bodewin 
dragging  the  blanket  after  him.  He  spread  it 
down  again  on  the  windward  side  of  the  fire,  but 
Josephine  did  not  seem  disposed  to  resume  her 
seat. 

They  were  hovering  about  in  that  fascinating  ~ 
borderland  between  firelight  and  moonlight. 
The  moon  had  risen  high  enough  to  fill  the  thin 
woods  with  its  light ;  but  it  was  a  pale,  suffused 
radiance  by  contrast  with  the  red  fire-glow.  The 
wind  in  the  tree-tops  over  their  heads,  like  a  cir 
cle  of  unseen  whisperers,  closed  around  the 
lightly  joined  thread  of  their  talk. 

"Do  people  ever  get  used  to  this?"  Josephine 
asked. 

"  I  am  afraid  they  do.  But  they  enjoy  it  over 
again,  as  I  do  to-night,  seeing  your  fresh  eyes 
take  it  all  in  f<5r  the  first  time." 

"How  do  you  know  that  I  like  it?  I  have  not 
said  so,  have  I  ?  " 


60  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"  I  can  see  that  you  do." 

"  I  do,  I  do ! "  she  said,  in  her  full,  cordial 
tones.  "  But  not  all  of  it." 

"No  ;  there  is  too  much  of  it  to  be  all  good." 
After  a  pause  he  asked :  "  Your  father  is  making 
a  longer  stay  in  the  camp  than  he  intended,  is  he 
not?" 

"Yes;  we  were  to  have  gone  this  week.  He 
will  wait  now  until  after  the  trial." 

"I  hope  he  will  gain  his  suit,"  Bodewin  said 
civilly. 

"Do  you?"  came  involuntarily  from  Josephine. 

"Why  are  you  surprised,  Miss  Newbold,  to 
find  my  sympathies  on  the  side  of  justice  ?  " 

"I  did  not  know  you  thought  that  was  our 
side,"  Josephine  replied  coldly. 

"  I  do  think  so." 

"  Then  if  you  care  about  justice,  why  don't  you 
go  into  court  and  say  so  ?  " 

Josephine  looked  at  him,  hardly  less  astonished 
than  he  at  her  own  words.  It  was  undeniably 
careless  of  Bodewin  to  have  assumed  that  Miss 
Newbold  knew  nothing  of  his  connection  with 
her  father's  lawsuit.  And  Josephine,  under  the 
pressure  of  her  own  misgivings,  had  allowed  her 
self  to  be  goaded  by  his  cool  allusion  into  an 


THE   CAMP-FIRE.  61 

extraordinary  liberty.  So  she  instantly  felt  it  to 
be,  and  so  she  knew  that  he  also  regarded  it.  He 
looked  at  her  keenly  and  gravely. 

"  You  must  not  answer  that  question,"  she  said. 
"  I  had  no  right  to  ask  it." 

"Perhaps  you  had  not,"  he  assented.  "You 
will  pardon  me  if  I  do  not  answer  it." 

"You  will  only  humiliate  me  if  you  do." 

Neither  found  it  easy  to  go  on  talking  as  they 
had  talked  before.  By  a  common  impulse  they 
moved  back  towards  the  camp,  and  when  they 
rejoined  the  circle  around  the  fire,  Josephine 
contrived  that  her  seat  should  be  as  far  away  as 
possible  from  Bodewin.  Her  evening  was  spoiled 
—  and  more  than  that.  She  did  not  ask  herself 
what  more,  but  miserably  she  felt  what  a  fire  is 
the  tongue  that  is  not  disciplined.  It  had  not 
occurred  to  her  before  whether  she  was  likely  or 
not  to  meet  Bodewin  again,  but  now  she  found 
herself  earnestly  hoping  that  she  might.  She 
longed  to  retrieve  herself,  for  the  sake  of  her 
own  self-respect.  Mr.  Hillbury  was  telling  a 
story  in  his  low,  pleasant  tones  and  matter-of-fact 
manner  that  heightened  the  effect  of  his  climaxes. 
She  tried  to  fix  her  attention  upon  it,  and  sat 
with  a  strained  half-smile  on  her  face  and  her 


62  JOHN   BODE  WIN'S   TESTIMONY. 

eyes  on  the  speaker,  never  looking  at  or  speaking 
to  Bode  win  again,  except  to  say  good-evening  to 
him  in  her  quietest  manner  when  the  company 
broke  up. 

Bodewin  lingered  after  the  other  guests  had 
gone,  and  smoked  another  pipe  with  Hillbury. 
The  latter  remarked  upon  Miss  Newbold's  beauty. 
It  was  too.  obvious  to  call  for  discussion,  though 
Hillbury  invited  one  by  saying  that  she  was  too 
unconscious  to  be  thoroughly  graceful,  and  that  to 
him  she  seemed  like  a  preposterously  handsome 
boy. 

"  Oh,  come  !  "  said  Bodewin.  "  If  she  were 
coqttette  with  that  face  and  figure,  where  should 
we  be  ?  Heaven  is  merciful,  after  all !  " 

When  the  pipe  was  finished  Bodewin  took  his 
way  along  the  ditch  walk  alone.  The  Craig 
cabin  was  dark  as  he  passed  it.  He  stopped  on 
the  foot-bridge  and  leaned  upon  the  rail,  watching 
the  current  slide  under  the  shadow  of  the  bridge 
and  out  again  into  the  light.  A  reflection  of  the 
moon,  now  high  overhead,  floated  in  the  black 
water  of  the  ditch.  It  wavered  and  widened  and 
shrunk,  as  the  water  shifted  its  levels  under  the 
golden  gleam.  It  struck  Bodewin  as  a  rather 
dreary  thing  that  he  should  have  been  so  startled 


THE  CAMP-FIRE.  63 

by  a  girl's  impulsive  question.  It  showed  how 
seldom  girls  had  taken  the  trouble  to  ask  him 
questions,  even  uncomplimentary  ones,  about  him 
self.  "Well,  it  wasn't  so  disagreeable  for  a  first 
experience  of  the  kind.  Its  novelty  was  not  its 
only  charm.  He  half  wished,  now  that  it  was  too 
late,  that  he  had  tried  to  answer  her  question, 
and  so  admitted  in  some  sort  her  right  to  ask  it. 
It  might  have  ended  in  a  rather  piquant  flirtation 
on  high  moral  grounds,  since  they  were  to  be  so 
much  longer  together  in  the  camp ;  but  now 
there  was  small  likelihood  of  any  concession  on 
her  part.  She  had  without  doubt  the  true, 
woman's  art  to  punish  a  man  for  her  own  offence 
against  him. 


CHAPTER   V. 

AN   OFFSET   TO   THE   DINNEK. 

Miss  NEWBOLD'S  opportunity  to  retrieve  herself 
came,  not  many  days  later,  through  the  innocent 
machinations  of  Mrs.  Craig.  Mrs.  Craig  also 
wished  to  retrieve  herself.  She  had  given  the 
Newbolds  a  bad  dinner.  Atonement  was  out  of 
the  question  where  Mr.  Newbold  was  concerned, 
unless  it  might  be  through  making  Mr.  Newbold's 
daughter  happy.  Her  head  had  not  touched  her 
pillow,  the  night  after  the  dinner,  before  it  began 
comparing  rides  and  walks  and  excursions  in 
various  directions,  with  a  view  to  Miss  Newbold's 
amusement.  Chance,  after  all,  decided  her  choice. 
Mr.  Hillbury  offered  a  professional  errand  of  his 
own  as  an  excuse  for  a  ride  half-way  to  the  top  of 
one  of  the  famed  peaks  of  the  neighboring  range. 
A  party  was  quickly  made  up.  Mr.  Newbold  at 
the  outset  declined  to  attempt  a  twenty-mile  ride 
on  horseback  including  a  good  deal  of  mountain 
work;  but  he  was  obviously  pleased  with  the 

64 


AN   OFFSET   TO   THE   DINNER.  65 

plan,  for  his  daughter's  sake.  Bodewin  was  in 
vited,  Mrs.  Craig  informing  him  that  he  was  ex 
pected  to  supply  those  minor  passages  without 
which  a  pleasure  party,  like  dance  music,  is  flat. 

"We  are  all  monotonously  major,  every  one  of 
us,  —  Mr.  Hillbury,  Miss  Newbold,  Joe,  and  my 
self.  You  must  come  along  and  change  the  key." 

The  riders  made  an  early  start  from  the  Wiltsie 
House.  Mr.  Newbold  stood  on  the  curbstone  and 
watched  them  out  of  sight,  Josephine  taking  the 
lead,  with  Mr.  Craig  on  her  right  and  Hillbury  on 
her  left,  followed  by  Mrs.  Craig  with  Bodewin  be 
side  her,  on  his  bald-faced  bay.  Half  a  mile  beyond 
the  camp  they  left  the  stage-road  for  one  of  the 
many  stony  trails  which  climbed  the  sides  of  the 
gulch,  branching  in  various  directions  towards  as 
many  different  mines.  Always  ascending  north 
ward,  they  crossed  the  belt  of  burnt  timber  and 
entered  the  dark  and  fragrant  spruce  woods,  the 
last  and  toughest  growth  on  the  mountain-side. 
Here  they  rode  singly  in  a  green  twilight  chinked 
with  golden  lights.  The  trail  was  barely  distin 
guishable  ;  the  horses'  hoofs  fell  with  a  soft  thud 
on  the  thick-sifted  layers  of  spruce  needles,  or 
struck,  with  a  hollow  ring,  the  trunk  of  a 
fallen  tree  in  stepping  over  it.  No  bird-calls 


66  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

broke  the  stillness;  no  sounds  of  any  kind  be 
trayed  the  small  furtive  activities  of  forest  habi 
tants.  It  was  late,  even  for  the  season  of  wild 
flowers  fed  from  the  cold-bosomed  snows  of  the 
range.  A  few  patches  of  the  inextinguishable 
fire-weed  lighted  the  dim  slopes ;  and  occasionally, 
beside  the  trail,  there  bloomed  in  its  weird  beauty 
a  poppy-shaped  flower  011  a  long  hair-like  stem 
with  petals  colored  like  the  wings  of  a  lunar 
moth. 

From  time  to  time  Josephine,  riding  ahead, 
tried  the  silence  shyly  with  her  voice.  It  was  a 
voice  with  one  or  two  exquisite  notes  in  it  beside 
the  note,  ever  welcome,  of  youth.  It  was  like  a 
human  response  to  the  dumb  litany  of  the  forest. 
Josephine  was  happy  to  be  on  horseback  in  a  new 
and  singularly  interesting,  if  not  always  beautiful, 
region.  The  keen  edge  had  passed  from  her 
mortification  with  regard  to  Bodewin.  She  was 
content  to  let  him  keep  his  impressions  of  her, 
however  unfortunate  they  might  be,  without  any 
effort  on  her  part  to  correct  them,  so  long  as  a 
morning  as  perfect  as  this  found  her  still  in 
tune.  So  healthy  and  so  honest  a  girl  could  not 
keep  her  head  low  because  of  a  single  slip,  which 
hurt  her  through  her  delicacy  rather  than  her 


AN   OFFSET   TO   THE   DINNER.  67 

conscience,  and  merely  affected  her  passing  rela 
tions  with  a  stranger.  In  forgiving  herself,  she /< 
forgave  Bodewin,  and  was  at  peace  with  the 
world.  Nevertheless,  stranger  as  he  was,  she 
wished,  before  he  drifted  out  of  her  life  alto 
gether,  that  he  could  be  cleared  of  the  reproach 
which  still  clung  to  him  in  her  thoughts.  Was 
it  through  listlessness  merely  and  vain  oblivious- 
ness  that  he  kept  silent  when  the  truth  was 
demanded  of  him  ?  Was  it  likely  that  in  the  past 
his  life-threads  had  become  entangled  with  those 
of  Harkins — a  man  whom  common  report  called 
an  unscrupulous  rogue,  though  a  merry  one,  and 
generous  enough  with  his  spoils  when  won? 
What  could  there  be  in  common  between  them  ? 
Yet  she  constantly  heard  it  said  that  Bodewin  • 
would  not  appear  against  Harkins.  Why  not? 
Well,  let  it  go !  She  was  sure  to  do  some  one, 
perhaps  more  than  one,  some  horrible  injustice  in 
her  thoughts,  if  she  let  them  dwell  on  this  sub 
ject,  which  had  already  proved  a  pitfall  to  her 
discretion. 

•  "  Isn't  she  charming  ? "  Mrs.  Craig  said  to 
Bodewin.  The  trees  parting  Had  allowed  him  to 
keep  at  her  side.  "  So  extravagantly  pretty,  and 
yet  so  simple  and  womanly  !  Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 


68  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"  I  have  not  tried  epithets  on  her  yet,"  Bode- 
win  replied.  "  But  I  dare  say  I  could  find  fault 
with  yours.  I  should  not  call  her  extravagantly 
pretty,  and  I  doubt  if  it  would  be  safe  to  rely  on 
her  simplicity." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  kind  of  simplicity  !  She 
is  simple  like  an  antique,  like  a  young  goddess." 

"Which  one  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  said.  "There 
is  the  Goddess  of  Liberty  on  the  Capitol.  Do 
you  call  her  simple?" 

"No,  I  call  her  decidedly  ornate.  There  is  a 
word  which  just  describes  her  if  I  could  only 
think  of  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  the  Goddess  of  Liberty  ?  " 

"  No,  I  mean  my  goddess." 

"  Perhaps  western  is  the  word  you  want." 

"Western?  Well,  it  isn't  such  a  bad  word  if 
you  take  it  right." 

"  I  mean  it  right." 

"  Somehow  I  cannot  talk  to  you  this  morning, 
Mr.  Bodewin,  I  think  you  are  not  in  your  hap 
piest  vein.  Are  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  happy  veins,  Mrs.  Craig.  They  all 
'pinched  out'  years  ago." 

"  Sink  a  new  shaft  then,  and  prospect  for  more. 
Isn't  that  good  advice  ?  " 


AN   OFFSET   TO   THE   DINNER.  69 

"  If  one  had  any  new  ground  to  sink  on.  The 
really  virtuous  thing  to  do  would  be  to  overhaul 
the  old  dumps  and  try  to  make 'days'  wages  out  of 
them." 

"  You'll  never  be  so  virtuous  as  that !  The 
American  does  not  live  who  is  content  with  days' 
wages  merely  at  anything." 

"It   is   time   he    was   born    then,"    said   Bode-/ 
win. 

"  Don't  be  so  dismal !  It  is  uncomplimentary, 
and  it  isn't  patriotic.  When  you  see  a  girl  like 
that  from  Kansas  City,  doesn't  it  make  you  feel 
how  rich  the  country  must  be  in  girls  ?  " 

Bodewin  laughed.  "If  it  be  not  rich  for 
me  —  "  and  then  the  trees  crowding  them  apart, 
he  lifted  his  hat  and  dropped  behind.  When 
next  they  met,  Mrs.  Craig  took  up  the  burden 
briskly,  the  theme  being  still  the  same. 

"  She's  not  a  Kansas  City  girl,  you  know." 

"No?" 

"No,  she  is  not  a  Missourian.  It  would  be 
strange  if  she  were,  even  in  name.  Her  family 
-  that  is  her  mother's  family  —  have  no  cause  to 
love  them.  Her  mother's  father  was  shot  dead 
—  on  his  own  doorstep,  if  you  please  —  by  a  mob 
of  Missourians  during  the  border  troubles." 


70  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"An  unpleasant  little  incident  in  the  family 
history,  I  should  say." 

"  Unpleasant !  Ah,  it  must  take  a  good  many 
generations  for  a  shock  like  that  to  die  out  of  the 
blood !  And  there  was  trouble  enough  before  it 
came  to  the  shooting,  —  journeys  and  hardships 
and  struggles  and  excitements.  You  don't  ask 
what  his  offence  was  ! " 

"  I  suppose  his  offence  was  that  he  was  a  Free- 
State  settler." 

"A  brave  and  consistent  one;  yes.  He  was 
one  of  that  band  of  families  who  were  turned 
back  by  the  cannon  planted  on  the  Missouri 
River  to  prevent  the  steamboats  from  landing 
Free-State  men.  They  went  north  by  way  of 
Iowa  and  Nebraska  (a  cheerful  little  journey), 
and  when  they  reached  the  border  again,  they 
were  met  by  government  soldiers  and  deprived  of 
their  arms  as  if  they  had  been  a  band  of  convicts. 
No  one,  it  seems,  ever  thought  of  disarming  the 
Missourians.  The  grandfather  Fletcher,  Joseph 
Fletcher,  —  hence  Josephine,  —  had  signed  a  pro 
test  against  the  shameless  election  frauds.  They 
came  to  his  house  one  night  and  demanded  to 
search  the  premises  for  incendiary  books  and 
papers.  The  New  York  4  Tribune'  would  have 


AN  OFFSET  TO  THE  DINNER.  71 

been  incendiary,  I  suppose,  in  those  days,  or 
Whittier's  poems.  He  refused  to  let  them  in. 
He  told  them  his  wife  was  very  ill  — " 

"Was  she?" 

"Of  course  she  was,  — so  ill  that  she  died  soon 
afterwards.  They  accused  him  of  signing  the 
protest.  He  did  not  deny  it,  and  they  then 
politely  informed  him  that  they  would  not  dis 
turb  his  wife  that  night,  but  would  trouble  him 
to  go  with  them.  They  were  going  to  tar  and 
feather  him,  or  do  something  hideous  to  him." 

"  How  did  he  know  that  ?  " 

"I  suppose  they  told  him.  At  all  events  he 
refused  to  go  with  them.  Wouldn't  you  have 
refused?" 

"  Possibly  I  should." 

"You  know  you  would  —  any  man  would! 
They  tried  to  compel  him ;  he  resisted,  and  they 
shot  him.  The  family  were  desired  not  to  pollute 
the  territory  with  their  presence  any  longer. 
Their  friends  the  Missourians  escorted  them  to 
the  border,  —  the  wife,  two  grown  sons,  and  Miss 
Josephine's  mother,  then  a  girl  of  sixteen.  At 
some  little  town  in  Ohio  they  buried  their  mother. 
The  sons  remained  there,  and  are  now  wealthy 
men  in  Cleveland.  The  daughter  married  Mr. 


72  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

Newbold.  I  cannot  imagine  how  he  ever  per 
suaded  her  to  go  back  with  him  to  Kansas,  but  he 
did,  after  the  sacking  and  shooting  were  over. 
Josephine  was  born  at  Wyaiidot.  She  is  just  as 
old  as  the  Free-State  Constitution." 

"Did  Miss  Newbold  tell  you  this  story,  Mrs. 
Craig?" 

"  No ;  oh,  no !  That  would  not  be  like  her,  I 
am  sure.  Mr.  Newbold  told  it  to  Mr.  Craig  one 
day  when  they  were  alone  together  in  the  office. 
He  was  speaking  of  his  wife's  delicate  health,  and 
the  trial  it  was  for  Josephine  to  leave  her.  But 
Mrs.  Newbold,  it  seems,  has  a  perfect  horror  of 
the  frontier;  I  should  think  she  would  have. 
When  she  found  her  husband  bent  on  this  trip, 
she  insisted  Josephine  should  bear  him  company ; 
to  take  care  of  him,  I  suppose,  if  he  should  be  ill. 
He  spoke  very  nicely  about  his  wife,  Mr.  Craig 
said ;  but  I  dare  say  he  couldn't  help  being  a 
little  complacent  over  her  anxiety  about  himself. 
Miss  Newbold  has  never  mentioned  her  mother 
to  me  but  once.  She  told  me  that  her  mother 
was  born  among  the  mountains,  that  she  had 
never  seen  them  since  her  childhood,  and  often 
dreamed  of  them  with  a  homesick  longing;  that 
she  wanted  her,  Josephine,  to  see  them  and  be 


AN   OFFSET   TO  THE  DINNER.  73 

among  them  while  she  was  still  a  girl.  I  think 
that  is  so  natural;  and  of  course  she  would  not 
say  it  to  her  husband." 

"  Wouldn't  she  ?     Why  not  ?  " 

"Could  she  talk  about  her  dreams  of  the  old 
home  in  the  East  she  never  expected  to  see  again, 
to  a  man  like  Mr.  Newbold  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  she  does  not  take  the  same  view  of 
Mr.  Newbold  that  you  do.  At  all  events,  she  was 
willing  at  one  time  to  exchange  those  dreams  for  a 
reality  which  must  have  been  something  like  him." 

"Ah!  that  was  the  husband  of  her  youth. 
Does  he  look  like  the  husband  of  anybody's 
youth  ?  He  has  deteriorated.  He  has  let  himself 
down,  you  may  be  sure  of  that.  He  has  that 
sleek,  prosperous  blood  in  him." 

"  You  think  there  are  no  martyrs  on  Mr.  New- 
bold'sside?" 

"I  should  say,  judging  from  papa  Newbold, 
that  as  a  family  they  would  be  distinguished  by 
good  digestions  and  a  tendency  to  conform  when 
ever  opposition  was  likely  to  make  things  uncom 
fortable.  However,  I  can't  be  just  to  him.  I 
gave  him  such  a  horrible  little  dinner,  and  we 
never  can  forgive  the  people  we  have  irretrievably 
wronged." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

JOSEPHINE'S  QUESTION. 

THEY  had  now  left  the  heavy  timber  behind 
them.  The  firs  grew  more  sparsely  and  were 
low  and  crooked ;  occasionally  the  weather-worn 
trunk  of  a  dead  tree  leaned  in  spectral  white 
ness  against  the  dark  ranks  of  its  survivors.  The 
riders  were  close  upon  the  line  where  trees  cease 
and  vegetation  creeps  close  to  the  ground  and 
takes  a  fur-like  habit.  Against  the  deep,  cloud 
less  blue  of  the  upper  atmosphere  rose  the  brown 
and  naked  peaks,  streaked  with  supernal  snows. 
The  sun  glowed  hot  upon  them ;  motionless 
shadows  denned  every  angle  and  chasm.  Clear, 
solid  masses  of  shadow  swept  down  the  sheer 
slopes  into  the  canon.  They  were  now  twelve 
thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  crossing 
a  shoulder  of  the  mountain,  from  which  they 
looked  down  into  deep  below  deep  of  shadow  and 
light,  descending  to  the  m'ap-like  picture  of  river- 
laced  valley  and  high,  barren  plain,  mesa,  and 

74 


JOSEPHINE'S  QUESTION.  75 

mountain,  range  beyond  range,  brown  and  purple 
and  blue,  departing  towards  the  infinite  distance. 
The  horses  panted,  their  ears  drooped,  their  hoofs 
rattled  on  the  rocky  planes  up  which  they  clam 
bered.  There  was  no  soil  and  no  verdure  except 
a  dry,  iron-stained  lichen  which  covered  the 
uncrumbled  surface  of  rock  with  its  rough 
scales. 

Mr.  Hillbury  was  in  search  of  a  prospect  hole, 
described  as  the  highest  one  within  a  day's  ride 
of  the  camp,  where  certain  fossil  records  of  the 
"  Old  Silurian  "  had  lately  come  to  light.  By  the 
measured  clink  of  steel  upon  steel,  they  were 
evidently  not  far  from  some  form  of  human  labor. 
Following  the  trend  of  the  mountain,  they  came 
upon  two  men  standing  face  to  face  on  a  lime 
stone  ledge,  at  work  upon  it  with  hammer  and 
drill.  Fragments  of  broken  rock  and  materials 
for  blasting  were  scattered  about.  There  was  no 
shelter  or  sign  of  habitation  near  them.  Jose 
phine,  looking  back  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Craig,  saw 
that  she  had  dismounted  some  distance  below, 
and  was  seated  on  the  sloping,  rocky  floor,  while 
her  husband  readjusted  her  saddle-blanket.  Pres 
ently  he  sat  down  beside  her,  leaving  the  horses 
fastened  together  by  their  bridles. 


76  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"Aren't  they  coming?"  Josephine  asked  Mr. 
Hillbury. 

" OA,  Craig  !  "  he  called ;  "are  you  coming  up  ?  " 

"No,"  was  the  reply.  "  Take  your  time  ;  we're 
all  right." 

They  looked  as  if  they  were.  Mrs.  Craig, 
waving  her  hand  to  Josephine,  stretched  her 
self  out  flat  upon  the  rock.  Mr.  Craig  doubled 
his  legs  under  him  and  lit  a  cigarette.  Josephine 
looked  rather  wistfully  at  this  comfortable  pan 
tomime. 

"  Aren't  you  tired  yourself?"  Bode  win  asked. 

"A  little,"  she  admitted.  "How  far  is  it  to 
the  lake?" 

"  Half  an  hour's  climb  down  again.  Let  me 
take  you  off.  It's  a  pity  to  get  too  tired  on  your 
first  climb." 

She  let  herself  be  lifted  down.  Bodewin  hung 
her  bridle  over  the  pommel  of  his  own  saddle, 
and  took  his  place  beside  her  on  the  sun-warmed 
rock.  Mr.  Hillbury  was  already  fossil-hunting, 
tapping  about  with  his  scientific  hammer,  while 
the  dead  home-strokes  of  the  miner's  sledge  beat 
continuously  on  the  silence.  For  the  sake  of  a 
brief  respite  from  the  sound,  Bodewin  addressed 
one  of  the  miners  ;  stretching  himself  forward  on 


JOSEPHINE'S  QUESTION.  77 

his  elbow  to  examine  a  hole  they  had  prepared 
for  blasting,  he  asked  : 

"  Can  you  get  enough  powder  in  a  hole  of  that 
size  for  such  hard  rock  ?  " 

"  Eh  ?  "  The  man  who  was  striking  the  drill 
stopped,  and  the  big  sunburnt  Irishman  who  held 
it  replied : 

"That's  what  I'm  tellin'  him,"  indicating  his 
partner.  "  It's  losin'  our  labor  we  are !  Ye'll 
blaw  and  blaw  and  ye'll  not  get  the  fill  o'  yer 
hat !  Thim  drills  is  too  short.  What's  he 
afther?"  he  asked,  leaning  upon  his  drill,  and 
nodding  his  head  with  a  confidential  smile  to 
wards  Mr.  Hillbury. 

"  Prospecting  for  fossils,"  Bodewin  replied. 

"  Is  it  one  o'  thim  stawne  bot'nists  he  is  ?  " 

Bodewin  nodded.     "  Something  like  that." 

"Sure,  this  is  the  place  for  'im.  There's  plenty 
of  it  here." 

He  came  down  the  ledge  towards  them,  using 
his  tool  as  a  staff,  and  ringing  it  on  the  rock  with 
each  heavy,  limping  step.  His  partner  remained 
above  sitting  on  the  heels  of  his  boots,  his  elbows 
on  his  knees,  his  hands  dropped  between  them 
holding  his  idle  hammer.  He  was  a  slenderly 
built  youth  of  about  twenty,  beardless,  tanned  to 


78  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

the  color  of  a  Mexican,  with  thin,  rather  hand 
some  features,  and  a  dull,  passionate  expression. 
He  watched  Josephine  and  Bodewin  with  listless 
attentiveness. 

"What  have  you  got  here  ?  "  Bodewin  inquired 
of  the  man  with  the  drill,  picking  up  some  pieces 
of  rock  as  he  spoke. 

"Well-le,  there's  galeny  in  it,  and  there's  car- 
b6iinets,"  he  replied,  turning  over  the  fragments 
of  stone  with  his  big,  freckled,  hairy  hand.  His 
manner  lacked  the  enthusiasm  of  the  typical 
miner,  but  he  spoke  with  a  degree  of  respect  for 
his  own  prospects. 

"  Where  are  your  carbonates  ?  "  Bodewin 
asked. 

"  And  what  d'ye  call  thim  ?  "  exhibiting  a  piece 
of  rock  the  color  of  an  over-burnt  brick. 

"There  are  no  carbonates  here."  Bodewin 
spoke  with  reckless  candor.  "  That  reddish  stuff 
is  the  oxide  of  iron." 

"  To  the  divvle  wid  yer  ox-ides  !  I'll  lay  me 
ould  hat  that's  the  color  we're  lookin'  for.  Is  it'n 
assay er  ye  are  ?  " 

"Take  it  over  to  the  stone  botanist  and  see 
what  he  makes  of  it,"  said  Bodewin  lazily. 

"  No,  but  is  it  an  assay  —  " 


JOSEPHINE'S  QUESTION.  79 

"  Take  it  to  the  botanist !  He'll  assay  it  for 
you." 

"  He  is  lame ! "  Josephine  said,  looking  after 
him  as  he  limped  away  over  the  rocks  with  his 
specimen  in  one  hand  and  his  drill  in  the  other. 

"  Oh,  no,  he  isn't ;  it's  the  national  walk.  Don't 
you  see  he  is  lame  in  both  feet  ?  " 

44 Weren't  you  rather  cruel  to  him  about  his 
'  carbdnnets  '  ?  " 

"  Not  half  as  cruel  as  I  am  to  Hillbury,"  Bode- 
win  replied,  laughing.  "  Hillbury  would  keep  us 
here  till  night  if  something  weren't  sent  to  irri 
tate  him."  Seeing  that  she  still  looked  sorrow 
fully  after  the  unlucky  prospector,  he  added, 
"  Would  it  be  cruel  to  tell  the  camel  he  couldn't  S 
get  through  the  needle's  eye  ?  " 

"  Is  it  as  hopeless  as  that  ?   Poor  fellow !  he  will  <X 
lose  his  labor,  as  he  said." 

"  He  will  do  well  if  he  loses  no  more  than  his 
labor.  They  are  a  queer  pair.  What  fate  do  you 
suppose  sent  a  good-natured  Irish  bricklayer  up 
here  nearly  to  the  top  of  Sheridan,  silver  hunting, 
with  a  Canadian  half-breed,  I  should  say  by  the 
looks  of  him,"  glancing  upward  toward  the  slim 
dark  figure  on  the  rocks  above,  "  for  a  partner  ?  " 

"  WKere  do  you  suppose  they  live  ?  " 


80  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"They  have  a  bough  shanty,  probably,  in  the 
nearest  timber.  Micky,  I  dare  say,  has  a  wife 
down  in  the  camp,  taking  in  washing  to  feed  the 
kids,  while  he  plays  it  alone  up  here  for  higher 
stakes." 

Bodewin  lay  stretched  out  upon  the  rock  in 
one  of  his  camp-fire  attitudes.  Josephine,  sitting 
a  little  above  him,  could  see  only  the  narrowing 
lines  of  the  lower  part  of  his  face  below  his  hat- 
brim.  They  were  sensitive  lines,  and  looked 
capable  of  much  refinement  of  expression,  but 
they  rested  habitually  in  a  quietness  that  was 
like  a  mask.  Dizzily  and  dreamily  Josephine 
looked  about  her.  She  felt  rather  than  saw  how 
far  they  were  exalted  into  that  vast  dome  of 
light ;  what  a  little  ledge  of  the  world  they  rested 
on.  The  sun  that  beat  upon  the  rock  filled  her 
veins  with  its  potent  warmth.  It  was  like  an 
exquisitely  gentle  and  prolonged  stream  of  elec 
tricity,  suffusing  the  brain  and  penetrating  the 
very  tissues  of  the  bones.  It  was  intoxicating. 
Dark  spots  crossed  her  vision.  She  drew  a  long 
sigh  of  retarded  breath  and  closed  her  eyes. 
Then  she  heard  Bodewin  speaking. 

"  Miss  Newbold,  I  think  after  all  you  must  let 
me  answer  that  question." 


JOSEPHINE'S  QUESTION.  81 

Josephine  waited  a  moment  before  replying. 
She  felt  it  would  be  paltry  to  ask  what  question. 
She  merely  said :  — 

"  Please  let  it  be  as  if  I  had  not  asked  it." 

"  How  is  that  to  be  done  ?  "  Bode  win  moved  a 
a  little  so  he  could  look  up  at  her  as  she  sat  above 
him. 

"May  not  one  repent  of  a  hasty  speech,  and 
withdraw  it  ?  " 

"If  there  be  any  occasion  for  repentance.  But 
it  is  not  easy  to  forget  words  sincerely  spoken. 
I  think  your  question  was  a  sincere  one,  Miss 
Newbold." 

"What  would  it  be  if  it  were  not  that?"  Jose 
phine  asked. 

"  It  would  not  be  worth  remembering.  But  I 
have  remembered  it,  you  see,  in  spite  of  myself,  I 
may  say.  I  believe  I  agreed  with  you  when  you 
said  you  had  no  right  to  ask  it.  That  was  a 
hasty  admission  on  my  part." 

"  Not  at  all !  You  could  not  help  seeing  it  was 
a  blunder.  I  hoped  you  would  have  seen  how 
sorry  I  was,  and  have  had  the  grace  to  forget  it." 

Bodewin,  feeling  about  among  the  loose  frag 
ments  of  rock  under  his  hand,  chose  one  and 
skipped  it  downward,  watching  it  glinting  along 


82  JOHN   BODEWIN'S   TESTIMONY. 

on  its  precipitious  course  until  it  vanished  in  the 
purple  depth  of  shadow  below  them. 

"  Grant  that  it  was  a  blunder,"  he  resumed,  "  I 
think  you  do  not  often  blunder  in  that  way. 
There  must  have  been  some  force  of  feeling  be 
hind  the  speech  that  you  so  deprecate.  It  could 
hardly  have  come  from  your  lips  merely."  He 
looked  at  her  and  smiled.  "  We  are  in  for  it  now, 
you  see." 

She  did  not  return  the  smile.  "I  don't  know 
what  you  mean  by  '  in  for  it.'  There  is  no  ques 
tion.  I  have  withdrawn  it.  It  doesn't  exist." 

"  You  have  a  very  lofty  little  way  of  annihilat 
ing  the  past;  unfortunately,  it  doesn't  affect  my 
past.  The  question  still  exists  for  me.  It  has 
been  existing  steadily  and  waxing  troublesome 
ever  since  I  saw  you." 

"  Oh  ! "  said  Josephine,  with  a  sigh  of  impa 
tience. 

"Well,  then,  why  did  you  ask  it,  Miss  New- 
bold?  You  charged  me  the  other  evening  with 
being  a  renegade  to  justice.  Is  it  not  so?  " 

Josephine  opened  her  lips  to  protest,  but  saw 
the  hopelessness  of  it,  apparently,  and  preserved 
her  silence  of  sufferance.  Bodewin  smiled  again 
quietly :  — 


JOSEPHINE'S  QUESTION.  83 

"It  is  not  often  a  woman  is  called  to  plead 
for  justice  in  opposition  to  sentiment  —  for  my 
answer  to  your  question  must  be  in  the  name  of 
something  I  shall  have  to  call  sentiment  for  want 
of  a  better  word.  You  see  what  an  unusual 
opportunity  you  have  given  me.  It  should  be 
made  a  precedent,  —  if  only  I  were  worthy  of  my 
r61e."  He  jerked  another  pebble  from  his  fingers 
into  the  abyss,  and  again  he  looked  with  a  half- 
fascinated,  half-teasing  smile  into  the  girl's  troub 
led  face. 

"  When  will  you  hear  my  poor  defence  ?  There 
is  not  time  to  offer  it  now ;  besides,  I  should  like 
to  get  up  my  case  a  little  before  presenting  it." 

Josephine  would  not  speak.  She  felt  how  hot 
and  flushed  her  cheeks  were,  and  how  her  lips 
trembled  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  You  will  not  be  cruel  enough  to  go  away  and 
leave  the  ghost  of  that  unanswered  question 
haunting  me.  I  shall  hear  you  all  the  way  from 
Kansas  City,  saving,  '  If  you  care  for  justice,  why 
won't  you  — ' ' 

"  Will  you  please  not  repeat  my  words  ?  "  she 
interrupted,  haughtily. 

There  was  not  a  trace  of  mockery  in  his  voice 
when  he  spoke  again. 


84  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"  They  are  not  your  words.  You  have  parted 
with  them;  they  have  a  life  of  their  own  now. 
Not  if  you  live  a  thousand  years  will  you  ever  get 
them  back  again." 

She  turned  her  full  face  towards  him  with  a 
speechless,  startled  movement. 

"  You  cannot  separate  a  vital  question  from  its 
answer,"  he  continued.  "  You  know  that  every 
now  and  then  in  the  life  of  a  nation  or  of  a  man 
the  time  comes  for  somebody  to  ask  a  question. 
The  person  who  asks  it  may  not  wish  to  be  the 
one  chosen ;  but  once  the  word  is  out  it  cannot 
rest  until  it  gets  itself  answered,  if  it  is  a  real 
question,  even  if  it  takes  the  nation's  life,  or  the 
man's,  to  answer  it.  I  have  not  deliberately 
thought  about  your  question,  Miss  Newbold, 
but  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  since  I 
saw  you  last  I  have  thought  of  but  little  else. 
If  I  cannot  answer  it  to  your  satisfaction,  you 
v  may  summon  me  to  the  trial  as  your  witness." 

"Answer  it  to  yourself,"  she  said,  "and  if 
truth  and  justice  do  not  summon  you,  you  have 
no  right  to  be  there." 

/      "  There  are  other  obligations  besides    those  of 
truth  and  justice." 

"  But  I  think  those  must  come  first." 


JOSEPHINE'S  QUESTION.  85 

"  Now  you  touch  upon  the  reason  why  I  wish 
to  lay  my  little  problem  before  you.  I  had  de 
cided  in  favor  of  certain  other  obligations ;  I  dare 
say  I  have  become  morbid  about  them.  Because 
of  your  untroubled  preference  for  truth  and  jus 
tice,  and  because  you  are  a  stranger,  unbiased,  as 
a  wise  young  judge  should  be,  I  desire  to  set  my 
small  difficulty  before  you.  I  am  tired  of  it. 
My  conscience,  when  I  question  it,  gives  out  only 
indistinct  mutterings." 

"You  ask  far  too  much  of  me.  I  cannot  do 
this  for  you,  Mr.  Bodewin.  I  am  not  untroubled. 
I  am  not  unbiased.  I  was  thinking  of  my  father. 
When  I  spoke  to  you  I  feared  you  might  be  refus 
ing  to  testify  because  you  knew  of  some  reason, 
unknown  to  him  or  to  Mr.  Craig,  why  he  ought 
not  to  win  his  suit.  It  was,  of  course,  my  own 
misgiving  entirely.  I  have  never  mentioned  it  to 
any  one,  but  it  seemed  to  me  a  terrible  thing  that 
you  should  be  willing  to  stand  aside  and  see  an 
honest  man  commit  an  unintentional  fraud." 

"But  I  told  you  I  believed  your  father's  side 
was  the  right  side,  did  I  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  I  was  satisfied." 

"  Then,  once  more,  please,  why  did  you  ask  me 
that  question  ?  " 


86  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"  Why  did  I  —  what  ?  "  said  Josephine  confus 
edly. 

"  It  was  after  I  gave  you,  unconsciously  enough, 
that  satisfaction  you  speak  of,  that  you  said,  —  well, 
you  will  not  let  me  repeat  the  words.  Was  there 
not  another  misgiving?  Has  that  been  satisfied  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Josephine,  helplessly,  "  but  it  does 
not  concern —  me." 

"Whom  does  it  concern,  may  I  ask?  " 

"I  am  not  so  anxious  to  answer  questions  as 
you  are." 

"  Does  it  concern  me.  Miss  Newbold  ?  I  seem 
to  be  flattering  myself,  but  there  are  not  so  many 
parties  in  this  affair.  I  can  hardly  suppose  it  is 
Mr.  Harkins  you  —  " 

"  I  know  I  have  brought  this  on  myself,"  cried 
Josephine  in  desperate  annoyance,  "  but  don't  you 
think  it  has  gone  far  enough  now  ?  " 

"  As  soon  as  you  have  promised  to  give  me  an 
opportunity  to  reply  to  whatever  doubt  prompted 
your  question,  it  will  have  gone  far  enough  —  not 
till  then." 

"  I  have  said  that  it  does  not  concern  me,  and 
have  asked  your  pardon  for  letting  you  know  I 
had  the  doubt,  or  for  having  it,  if  you  like.  Can 
I  do  more  ?  " 


JOSEPHINE'S  QUESTION.  87 

"  You  have  not  said  that  your  suspicions  do  not 
concern  me" 

"  Suspicions ! " 

"  We  will  go  back  to  the  original  word  then  — 
your  question.  Say  that  your  question  did  not 
concern  me,  and  I  will  not  insist  upon  answer^ 
ing  it." 

Josephine  was  silent. 

"  You  have  called  me  to  account  for  a  course  of 
action  I  am  at  perfect  liberty  to  take  and  which 
no  man  has  yet  questioned.  Is  it  quite  just  for 
you  to  refuse  to  hear  my  defence,  such  as  it  is  ?  I 
don't  claim  it  is  sufficient." 

"  I  will  hear  it." 

"  When,  please  ?  " 

"  Whenever  you  like.  But  I  cannot  attempt  to 
influence  your  decision.  I  would  not  do  it  if  you 
were  my  own  brother." 

"  It  would  be  much  less  easy  for  you  to,  if  I 
were.  Does  it  seem  to  you  too  intimate  a  thing 
for  me  to  ask  of  you?  " 

"  Yes,  it  does  !  "  she  exclaimed  eagerly  —  "  pre 
cisely  that ! " 

"  I  don't  regard  it  so,  and  I  promise  you  I  will 
not  take  advantage  of  it  as  an  approach  to  any 
thing  of  the  sort  in  the  future.  For  that  matter, 


88  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

jour  acquaintance  has  no  future  any  more  than  it 
lias  a  past.  It  shares  the  spirit  of  this  place, 
where  we  all  live  and  live  fast  in  the  present,  and 
then  separate  and  know  each  other  no  more.  I 
should  like  to  believe  that  some  instinct  of  help 
fulness  in  you  prompted  those  words  which  you 
regret,  because  they  were  unconventional.  Don't 
regret  them.  Don't  take  back  your  words,  but  be 
true  to  them,  and  be  brave  enough  not  to  shirk 
the  sequel  to  them.  The  sequel  to  a  question  is 
its  answer." 

Josephine  was  far  more  startled  by  his  earnest 
ness  than  she  had  been  chagrined  by  his  badinage. 

"  Oh  I  "  she  cried  in  desperation,  "  why  will 
you  insist  upon  enforcing  the  sequel  to  such  a 
foolish  beginning?  Why  not  let  it  rest?  What 
is  it  but  a  trifle  —  a  few  poor  words  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  a  trifle  to  me,  coming  from  you,  if 
you  please.  It  amounts  to  an  accusation.  It 
cannot  be  withdrawn  to  my  satisfaction  until  it 
has  been  answered." 

"  I  will  listen  to  your  answer,  but  more  than 
that  I  insist  you  must  not  ask  of  me.  I  am  not 
an  expert  on  matters  of  the  conscience  —  and  I 
am  being  slowly  consumed  on  this  rock,"  she 
sighed. 


JOSEPHINE'S  QUESTION.  89 

"  Forgive  me  ! "  he  said,  springing  to  his  feet 
and  holding  out  a  hand  to  help  her  to  rise. 
"Have  I  made  you  hate  me  ?" 

"Yes!"  she  declared.  "Do  not  put  your 
problem  in  my  hands.  I  am  as  biased  as  the 
most  disagreeable  half-hour  I  ever  spent  in  my 
life  can  make  me !  " 

"I  am  sorry  you  should  be  indebted  to  me 
for  it." 

"  Oh,  I  am  not !  I  am  indebted  to  myself.  But 
I  shall  hate  you  for  it,  just  the  same." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it.  I  ought  to  be  proud 
to  suffer  vicariously  when  I  can  save  you  from 
yourself  by  doing  so.  You  must  be  very  severe 
with  yourself  when  you  are  fairly  roused." 

"  I  think  I  have  never  been  fairly  roused." 

"  If  you  will  pardon  the  conjunction,  I  think 
we  neither  of  us  have,"  he  said. 

"  It  must  be  a  horrible  experience  to  be  utterly 
and  fundamentally  hateful  to  one's  self." 

"  I  think  it  is  an  experience  that  comes  to  but 
few,  and  not  to  those  who  most  need  it.  Here 
comes  Hillbury  !  He  seems  to  have  torn  himself 
from  the  bosom  of  the  Old  Silurian  at  last." 

As  Bodewin  put  Josephine  on  her  saddle  again, 
he  said  to  her,  "  Whatever  it  was  you  accused  me 


90  JOHN   BODEWIN'S   TESTIMONY. 

of  in  your  own  thoughts,  let  it  rest  until  I  can 
talk  with  you  again." 

" '  Still  harping,' "  she  replied,  and  hurried 
after  Mr.  Hillbury,  who  had  mounted  and  ridden 
on  to  join  the  Craigs.  Bodewin  followed  mus 
ingly,  and  did  not  attempt  to  lessen  the  distance 
between  them. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

ME.    CKAIG   GOES   A-HUNTING. 

THE  lake,  when  they  had  reached  it,  was,  after 
all,  in  size  hardly  more  than  a  large  pond.  It 
was  on  the  edge  of  the  timber,  a  clear,  still  eye 
of  water,  darkly  bordered  by  pine-trees,  with  one 
bright  spot  of  reflected  blue  shining  in  the 
middle,  like  an  immeasurable  far-off  sky  in  the 
depths  of  the  lake.  They  dismounted  again  and 
spread  out  their  lunch  in  the  dappled  shade.  It 
was  not  an  hilarious  picnic.  Mrs.  Craig  and 
Josephine  were  both  tired.  The  latter  was  also 
dazed  with  her  long  discussion  on  the  rocks  in 
the  blinding  sunlight.  Bodewin,  she  thought, 
must  be  of  the  salamander  species,  since  he  was 
so  sluggish  in  the  shade  and  woke  to  such  a  burst 
of  argumentative  energy  in  the  glare  of  the  sun. 
He  ate  little  and  talked  less,  relapsing  into  the 
background  of  conversation,  as  his  wont  was 
when  it  became  general. 

When  the  sylvan  meal  was  over,  Mr.  Craig 
91 


92  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

unslung  his  shot-gun  from  his  saddle  and  clam 
bered  down  into  the  heavier  timber,  in  search  of 
wood-pigeons,  he  said,  an  object  which  excited 
the  derision  of  the  other  men  of  the  party. 
Bode  win  referred  to  the  "man  in  the  wilderness,'' 
and  asked  Mrs.  Craig,  as  an  authority  on  nursery 
rhymes,  to  quote  for  him :  — 

"  The  man  in  the  wilderness  asked  me 
How  many  strawberries  grew  in  the  sea. 
I  answered  him  as  I  thought  good  — 
As  many  as  red-herrings  grow  in  the  wood." 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  — because  he  goes 
to  the  wood  for  wood-pigeons  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Craig. 

"To  this  particular  wood,"  said  Hillbury. 
"  You  would  not  laugh  at  a  man  for  going  to  the 
sea  for  fish ;  but  if  he  were  much  of  a  fisherman, 
he  would  hardly  go  to  Baffin's  Bay  for  mullet." 

"  Oh,  you  are  all  so  technical,"  said  Mrs.  Craig; 
"  for  my  part  I  think  a  little  vague  general  infor 
mation  is  much  more  restful." 

They  sat  under  the  low  spruce  boughs  by  the 
lake,  talking  and  listening  in  the  rustle  of  the 
deep  tideless  water  and  the  sur-r-r-ing  of  the  wind 
in  the  trees.  Mr.  Hillbury  produced  his  fossils, 
delicate  forms  of  earliest  organic  life  imprinted  in 
glistening  pyrites  on  the  dark  Silurian  slate- 


MR.   CRAIG   GOES   A-HUNTING.  93 

The  ladies  held  the  fragments  of  the  old  sea-beach 
on  the  palms  of  their  hands,  and  examined  them 
with  a  magnifying  glass,  exclaiming  over  them  in 
their  soft  staccato.  Once  there  came  from  the 
wood  the  sound  of  a  single  shot.  Bodewin  and 
Hillbury  both  recognized  it  as  the  note  of  Craig's 
gun. 

"  He  has  found  the  wood-pigeon  I  " 
They  waited  for  a  second  shot,  but  none  came. 
When  the  slanting  sunbeams  had  pierced  their 
covert,  they  abandoned  it,  and  strolled  along  the 
shore  of  the  lake.  Mr.  Hillbury  walked  with 
Josephine,  pointing  out  to  her  the  long  formless 
ridges  which  marked  the  recession  of  one  of  those 
vast  glacial  seas  that  had  crawled  down  the 
mountain-sides  during  the  epoch  of  ice.  The 
lake  had  been  formed  between  two  of  these 
ancient  moraines.  Solitary,  unvisited,  bare  of 
human  association  or  tradition  as  it  was,  — '  / 
"  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time,"  —  its 
cradled  waters  were  uncounted  centuries  old 
before  the  story  of  man  began. 

Bodewin  jeered  at  his  friend  a  little  for  his 
popular  science,  and  was  rebuked  by  Mrs.  Craig. 
She  had  herself  more  than  once  interrupted  Mr. 
Hillbury,  and  asked  for  a  moment's  silence, 


94  JOHN  BODEWIN'S   TESTIMONY. 

during  which   she   seemed   to   listen    for   sounds 
from  the  wood. 

The  afternoon  wore  away.  The  sun  dropped 
below  the  western  ridge  and  left  the  lake  gray  in 
shadow.  Since  the  single  report  of  his  gun, 
nothing  had  been  heard  from  Craig.  His  wife 
could  no  longer  conceal  her  wretchedness  at  his 
absence.  She  sat,  pale  and  silent,  looking  from 
one  to  the  other,  while  Bodewin  and  Hillbury 
persistently  made  light  of  it,  meanwhile  planning 
a  search  for  him  on  the  excuse  that  it  was  already 
late  for  their  homeward  start.  The  pleasure 
party  had  reached  a  pitch  of  positive  demoraliza 
tion,  as  far  as  the  women  were  concerned,  when 
Craig  himself  was  heard  shouting  from  the  oppo 
site  shore  of  the  lake.  He  was  walking  fast 
under  the  trees,  apparently  none  the  worse  for 
the  gun  which  he  carried  over  his  shoulder.  Mrs. 
Craig  was  a  little  overcome  at  the  sight  of  him, 
and  laughed  in  a  nervous,  immoderate  way  at  her 
late  fears ;  but  she  recovered  herself  when  Craig 
arrived,  red  and  out  of  breath  with  his  hurried 
walk  around  the  lake,  and  received  him  with 
lively  upbraidings.  He  was  unnecessarily  cheer 
ful,  and  he  had  besides  an  important  air  of  adven 
ture  about  him  which,  under  the  circumstances, 


MR.   CRAIG   GOES   A-HUNTING.  95 

called  for  immediate  snubbing.  When  he  had 
been  brought  to  a  proper  sense  of  his  weakness 
and  evil  behavior,  he  was  allowed  to  tell  his 
story. 

"  But  first,  where  is  the  wood-pigeon  ? "  said 
Hillbury. 

"  Oh,  I  found  her,  but  I  didn't  bring  her 
home  !  "  Craig  did  not  mind  confessing,  he  said, 
that  he  had  missed  his  bearings.  "  One  part  of 
the  wood  looked  so  confoundedly  like  another, 
and  there  was  no  wind." 

"  No  wind!  "  his  wife  interrupted. 

"  Not  in  the  timber  —  not  a  breath  —  and 
mighty  little  sun.  You  are  higher  up,  remember. 
You  had  an  hour's  more  sun  than  I  had.  I  began 
to  think  I  had  been  walking  about  long  enough 
without  getting  anywhere,  when  I  heard  a  horse 
whinny.  A  few  steps  on  I  came  to  a  corral,  and 
just  beyond  it  a  biggish  log-cabin.  The  back  end 
of  it  ran  butt  into  the  dump  of  an  old  prospect 
hole.  The  ground  rose  suddenly  behind  the 
cabin,  and  the  dump  sloped  up  against  the  hill. 
There  was  a  long  bench  by  the  door,  and  there 
sat  the  prettiest  girl,  in  a  calico  dress,  with  her 
arms  bare,  feeding  a  setter-pup  !  She  had  him  in 
her  lap,  and  he  was  nuzzling  about  in  a  saucer  of 


96  JOHN  BODEWLN'S  TESTIMONY. 

milk  she  held,  and  sometimes  licking  her  arms  by 
mistake.  She  had  one  of  those  low  Greek  heads 
my  wife  likes  so  much,  with  small  intelligence  in 
it,  I  should  say,  but  plenty  of  hair  on  it  —  yellow 
hair,  braided  in  two  tails  and  wound  around  the 
head.  I  asked  her  the  way  to  the  lake.  She 
stared  at  me  and  said  she  didn't  know  of  any 
lake ;  she  hadn't  been  in  these  parts  long.  She 
had  a  kind  of  sweet,  stolid  way  that  was  uncom 
monly  taking  in  connection  with  her  looks.  I 
wanted  to  look  at  her  a  little  longer,  so  I  asked 
her  if  the  pup  was  for  sale." 

Mr.  Craig  was  here  interrupted  in  his  narrative 
by  laughter  and  applause. 

44  She  said  that  she  didn't  know.  Her  father 
wasn't  home.  I  might  call  again  and  inquire.  I 
asked  her  when  I  would  be  likely  to  find  her 
father  at  home  in  case  I  called.  She  couldn't  tell. 
Her  father  was  mostly  home  except  when  he 
went  to  the  camp,  or  over  the  range  to  a  pros 
pect  he  had  there. 

"  I  asked  permission  to  climb  up  the  dump  and 
see  if  I  could  get  a  better  view  of  my  surround 
ings  from  the  top  of  it.  She  gave  me  permission 
and  followed  me  up  there  with  the  pup  in  her 
arms.  There  was  just  a  streak  of  sunlight  left. 


MR.   CRAIG  GOES   A-HUNTING.  97 

It  touched  her  hair  very  prettily,  and  it  showed 
me  which  way  was  west,  and  so  I  made  for  the 
lake  and  left  her  there,  making  no  end  of  a 
pretty  picture  of  herself  with  the  sun  on  her 
golden  hair." 

"  Tlie  man  in  the  wilderness  asked  me 
How  many  strawberries  grew  in  the  sea. 
I  answered  him  as  I  thought  good  — 
As  many  as  pretty  girls  grow  in  the  wood," 

laughed  Mrs.  Craig. 

"  Come,  'saddle  up,  saddle!"  said  Bodewin. 
"We  won't  get  out  of  the  woods  now  before 
dark ! " 

Mr.  Newbold  had  ordered  a  supper .  for  the 
party  on  their  return.  Mrs.  Craig  excused  her 
self  on  her  children's  account  from  remaining  to 
it.  Craig,  as  he  rode  away  beside  his  wife,  called 
back  to  Hillbury : 

"The  next  time  you  go  up  the  lake  way,  look 
up  my  cabin  in  the  timber,  will  you  ?  I'll  com 
mission  you  to  get  me  that  setter-pup." 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  stand  so  much  of 
Craig,"  said  Bodewin,  crossly. 

"  Craig  is  a  good  fellow." 

"  A  good  fellow,  yes  —  and  a  common  fellow. 
It  makes  me  sick  to  see  him  ride." 


98  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"  He  rides  well  enough,"  said  Hillbury.  "  The 
fact  is,  there  isn't  one  man  in  a  hundred  one 
wants  to  spend  a  whole  day  in  the  woods  with." 

"As  for  that  cabin  and  girl  and  pup  story," 
Bodewin  went  on. 

"  Don't  you  believe  it  ?  "  asked  Hillbury. 

"  Hardly.  I  am  tolerably  well  acquainted  with 
those  woods  myself.  He  got  himself  lost,  like 
the  tender-foot  he  is,  and  invented  this  story 
to  carry  it  off.  That  sunlight-on-her-yellow-hair 
business  is  rather  too  must}^." 

"  I  think  you  are  mistaken,  Bodewin.  Craig  to 
me  looked  and  talked  like  a  man  who  had  just 
had  that  sort  of  luck,  to  be  stumbling  along  dis 
gustedly  and  suddenly  come  upon  the  little  idyl 
in  the  forest.  If  it  were  an  invention,  why  put 
in  the  old  prospect  hole  and  the  setter-pup  ?  " 

"  It  is  possible  he  has  seen  such  a  cabin  and 
such  a  group  by  the  door,  but  I  doubt  if  he  saw 
them  this  afternoon." 

"  Bodewin,  I  will  bet  you  a  box  of  cigars  I  will 
find  that  cabin  myself  within  a  week." 

"  You'll  waste  your  time  and  lose  your  cigars, 
—  and  Craig  is  an  ass  !  " 

They  were  in  the  office  of  the  Wiltsie  House, 
sitting  on  the  row  of  chairs  along  the  wall  oppo- 


ME.   CEAIG   GOES   A-HUNTING.  99 

site  the  clerk's  desk.  In  the  confusion  of  un 
modulated  voices  their  own  lower  tones  were 
lost. 

"  How  long  would  you  be  a  friend  of  Mrs. 
Craig  if  she  knew  you  thought  so?"  Hillbury 
asked. 

"  I  am  not  indebted  to  Craig  for  his  wife's  ac 
quaintance.  I  knew  Mrs.  Craig  years  before  he 
ever  saw  her.  At  a  pinch  I  dare  say  she  could 
exist  without  me,  and  I  possibly  without  her. 
There  are  times  when  I  find  Craig  too  great 
a  discount  on  the  friendship  of  any  woman." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  old  man  ?  " 

"Hillbury,"  said  Bodewin,  with  a  sudden 
change  of  manner,  taking  a  small,  worn,  leather 
note-book  from  his  pocket,  and  turning  over  its 
pages  absently,  "  I  wish  the  Lord  would  let  me 
burn  this  book !  I  have  dropped  it  down  shafts ; 
I  have  left  it  in  my  old  coat-pockets  when  I 
moved  camp,  and  had  it  sent  back  to  me ;  I  have, 
within  the  past  year,  taken  it  out  more  than 
once  with  as  deliberate  intention  as  I  have  of 
going  to  bed  to-night  of  destroying  it.  Upon  my 
soul  I  can't  do  it !  " 

"  What  have  you  in  it  ?  " 

"Well,  amongst  other  things,  some  memoranda 


100  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

relating  to  the  Harkins  and.  Eagle  Bird  suit. 
The  Eagle  Bird  people  want  me  to  appear  on 
their  side." 

"  So  I  have  heard,"  Hillbury  said,  much  inter 
ested,  and  quietly  observant  of  his  friend.  He 
had  speculated  not  a  little  upon  the  probable 
meaning  of  Bodewin's  reluctance  to  testify  on 
this  suit,  even  as  he  often  speculated  about  Bode- 
win  himself;  but  the  two  men  might  have  been 
the  sole  occupants  of  a  lighthouse  for  a  year 
without  its  once  occurring  to  Hillbury  to  ask  his 
friend  the  question  Miss  Newbold  had  posed  him 
with  an  hour  after  his  introduction  to  her. 

uYes,"  Bodewin  continued.  "  It's  a  horrible 
nuisance.  I  would  like  to  tell  you  about  it,  but 
you  know  me  too  well,  Hillbury.  I  should  hate 
to  have  the  thing  perpetually  associated  with  me 
in  your  mind.  The  only  people,  after  all,  to  con 
fide  in,  are  those  whom  you  like  at  first  sight,  and 
never  expect  to  see  again." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,  but  then  that's  noth 
ing  new." 

"I  will  tell  you  this  much,"  Bodewin  began, 
but  Hillbury  interrupted. 

"  Why  tell  me  anything  if  you  don't  wish  to  tell 
me  all  ?  Half  confidences  are  so  often  misleading." 


MB.   CRAIG  GOES   A-HUNTING.  101 

"  Because  it  botes  me  so  !  Hillbury,  I  am  sold 
into  bondage  I-'  I  am  under  an  obligation  to  Har- 
kins, —  a  most  delicate,  personal,  strenuous  obli 
gation.  It  is  a  thousand  times  worse  than  if 
he  had  saved  my  life.  It  involves  —  Bodewin  . 
found  he  had  been  precipitate  after  all.  He  could 
not  say  to  Hillbury,  whose  people  in  the  East 
knew  his  own,  "  It  involves  my  sister's  name  and 
memory."  He  paused,  with  his  friend's  dark, 
grave  eyes  resting  on  his  face,  and  ended  stupidly. 
"It  involves  the  name  of  a  woman — one  of  the 
sweetest  God  ever  made  for  man  to  destroy.  If  I 
have  to  balk  Harkins's  game,  he  is  just  clever 
enough  to  see  that  here  is  his  revenge.  Don't  I 
know  with  what  an  unholy  glee  he  would  parade 
my  obligation  to  him  and  his  generosity  to  her 
whose  name  I  must  protect  ?  " 

"  Bodewin,  my  dear  fellow,  will  you  forgive  me 
for  saying  this  whole  thing,  as  you  hint  at  it, 
sounds  to  me  fantastic  and  morbid.  I  have 
always  suspected  you  of  a  dangerous  kind  of 
enthusiasm  in  your  moral  processes.  The  busi 
ness  of  living  is,  after  all,  nothing  but  a  series  of 
investments  at  a  high  rate  of  interest  with  corre-  ' 
sponding  risks,  or  at  a  low  rate  with  good  secur 
ity.  I  am  afraid  you  go  in  too  much  for  the 


102 

ten  per  cents  and  the  risks  in  your  moral  invest 
ments." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  the  risks  ?  " 

"You  can't  need  to  be  told  what  they  are.  You'd 
better  stick  to  the  plain  lines  of  duty,  so  far  as 
Harkins  is  concerned,  and  protect  your  own  name 
first.  It  occurs  to  you,  no  doubt,  that  this  is  a 
little  gratuitous  on  my  part ;  but  I  am  older  than 
}rou,  and  on  some  points  not  so  sensitive." 

"  Not  so  vulnerable,  you  mean,"  said  Bodewin, 
with  a  touch  of  bitterness. 

Hillbury  had  no  time  to  respond  before  Mr. 
Newbold  joined  them  with  his  daughter's  excuses 
instead  of  her  company.  "  She  was  tired,"  he 
said,  "  and  did  not  care  to  change  her  dress.  She'd 
have  come  down  fast  enough  if  Mrs.  Craig  had 
stayed,  but  she's  not  accustomed  to  be  the  only 
lady;  and  the  restaurant,  you  know,  at  this 
hour  —  " 

The  green-baize-covered  door  closed  upon  the 
sentence. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

BODEWIN'S    SISTER. 

BODEWIN  belonged  to  that  generation  of  the 
country's  youth  which  was  hurried  into  prema 
ture  manhood  by  the  shock  of  the  civil  war. 
He  was  sixteen  the  spring  of  1861,  when  his 
elder  brother  left  home  in  response  to  the  Presi 
dent's  call  for  volunteers.  That  summer  young 
Bode  win  went  up  to  Yale  to  pass  his  preliminary 
examination.  He  was  already  a  man  in  stature, 
and  it  was  thought  the  best  way  to  keep  him  from 
haunting  the  recruiting  offices.  The  second  year 
closed  darkly,  with  Burnside's  losses  before 
Fredericksburg,  which  increased  the  demoraliza 
tion  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac,  on  which  the 
hopes  of  the  East  were  fixed.  Bodewin  entered 
with  all  the  passionate  pessimism  of  youth,  de 
barred  from  action,  into  the  uncertainties  of  the 
situation.  If  disruption  were  at  hand,  he  did  not 
care  for  his  future  :  if  the  war  were  to  be  success 
fully  and  honorably  brought  to  a  close,  he  could 

103 


104  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

not  accept  it  at  the  price  of  some  better  man's 
life.  Thus  he  brooded,  sitting  on  the  college 
fence,  under  the  budding  elms,  in  the  sad  spring 
twilights. 

He  wrote  to  his  brother  for  advice.  Captain 
Bode  win  told  him  plainly  that  his  place  was  with 
the  non-combatants  for  at  least  four  years  to 
come,  and  reminded  him  that  in  all  wars,  in  all 
ages,  the  widow  has  ever  been  entitled  to  one 
son.  This  was  not  the  advice  young  Bodewin 
wanted.  In  the  face  of  it  he  abandoned  his 
books  and  followed  his  boyish  leadings  into  the 
army,  enlisting  as  a  private  in  his  brother's  regi 
ment,  the  Connecticut  Cavalry.  He  served 

faithfully,  but  without  distinction,  until  the  close 
of  the  war.  When  the  armies  were  disbanded  he 
went  home  alone,  an  old-looking  boy  of  twenty, 
already  acquainted  with  grief,  lean  of  cheek  and 
limb,  with  hollows  under  his  young  eyes,  with  a 
habit  of  silence,  with  the  discipline  of  ten  years 
crowded  into  two  —  a  discipline  with  stern  limita 
tions,  however.  He  had  learned  something  of 
endurance,  of  obedience,  and  of  self-restraint; 
but  of  the  world  of  men  and  women  he  had  been 
spared  to  spend  his  life  among,  he  had  all  to  learn. 

The  house  had  lost  its  mainstay  —  that  wise  elder 


BODEWIN'S  SISTER.  105 

brother,  whom  the  mother  believed  Heaven  had 
given  her  to  be  the  support  of  her  widowed 
years.  He  had  fallen  in  the  last  great  charge  of 
the  war.  His  loss  was  embittered  to  Bodewin  by 
a  sense  of  its  needlessness,  for  the  struggle  was 
virtually  over.  It  seemed  as  if  the  lives  lost  that 
day  were  but  heaped  upon  the  over-full  measure 
of  the  nation's  dead,  in  the  very  wantonness  of 
sacrifice. 

The  night  after  the  battle  Bodewin  searched 
the  field  for  his  brother's  body.  A  comrade  kept 
at  his  side,  and  helped  him  in  his  last  poor  ser 
vices  to  the  dead.  The  young  men  were  of  the 
same  regiment ;  each  had  seen  and  approved  the 
other  in  action,  but  beyond  this  they  scarcely  knew 
each  other's  names.  As'  they  stood  together  by 
the  new-made  grave,  in  the  white  dawn  before 
sunrise,  Bodewin  had  said  to  his  comrade  :  — 

"  My  mother  must  thank  you  for  this  night's 
work." 

They  parted  with  a  promise  from  Lieutenant 
Eustis  that  he  would  visit  Bodewin  at  the  latter's 
home  if  both  lived  to  see  the  end  of  the  war. 

Eustis  had  accepted  the  invitation  with  some 
diffidence. 

"You  must  not  ask  me  under  an  impression 


106  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

that  I  was  a  friend  of  your  brother's,"  he  had 
said.  "  I  admired  him  greatly,  but  I  am  bound  to 
confess  that,  so  far  as  I  know,  the  feeling  was  not 
mutual." 

Bodewin  could  not  have  known  that  this  scru 
pulousness  was  far  from  being  characteristic  of 
Frank  Eustis.  It  was  a  genuine  touch  of  candor 
and  humility  won  from  him  by  the  circumstances 
which  had  brought  the  two  young  men  together  ; 
but  it  was  misleading,  as  only  nature  can  be. 

Bodewin  took  up  the  responsibilities  death  had 
laid  on  him  in  a  condition  of  mind  and  body  cal 
culated  to  breed  morbid  views  of  duty.  He  was 
physically  relaxed  by  the  reaction  which  followed 
the  change  from  army  life  to  the  life  of  home. 
The  heaviness  of  his  first  sorrow  was  upon  him. 
There  was,  besides,  the  dawn  of  another  sorrow 
he  could  not  blind  himself  to.  It  could  hardly 
be  called  a  change  in  his  mother ;  a  lapse,  rather, 
of  the  powers  mental  as  well  as  physical  —  the 
mark  left  by  the  war  on  a  gentle  nature,  strong 
only  in  its  affections.  The  heart  of  the  family 
she  would  be,  ever.  Its  head  she  had  ceased  to 
be. 

Bodewin  resigned  his  hopes  of  a  profession, 
and  applied  himself  to  the  resuscitation  of  his 


BODEWIN'S  SISTER.  107 

mother's  property.  His  father  had  for  fifteen 
years  held  a  professorship  in  an  Eastern  college. 
Late  in  life  he  had  married  the  only  surviving  jj 
child  and  heiress  of  Simeon  Wills,  a  member  of 
the  Society  of  Friends,  and  a  well-to-do  farmer, 
who  had  widened  his  landmarks  on  the  Sound 
shore  of  Connecticut  until  they  included  about 
three  hundred  acres  of  salt-marsh,  sea-beach, 
woodland,  and  stony  pasture.  To  their  grand 
father's  house  Tristram  Bodewiii's  widow  had 
taken  her  children  after  her  husband's  death,  and 
since  that  time,  early  in  their  childish  recollec 
tions,  they  had  known  no  other  home. 

True  to  her  father's  faith  herself,  she  had  not 
tried  to  make  proselytes  even  of  her  own  chil 
dren,  but  to  each  one  in  different  degrees  she  had 
transmitted  that  quiet  persistence  which  was  one 
of  her  own  least  conspicuous  but  most  inherent 
traits. 

Bodewin  had  left  his  sister  a  child.  A  child 
she  still  seemed  to  him,  although  she  was  tall  for 
sixteen,  when  to  the  broken  household  came 
Eustis  in  his  faded  cavalry  uniform,  with  his 
record  of  fifty  battles  and  that  last  service  of  his 
to  the  dead  son  of  the  house  to  aid  him  in  mak 
ing  an  impression.  Ellen  Bodewin  was  not  a 


108  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

beauty,  but  in  many  ways  she  was  beautiful.  In 
after  years,  when  the  thought  of  his  sister  had 
become  the  permanent  ache  of  his  heart,  Bodewin 
always  saw  her  as  he  used  to  see  her  that  summer, 
crossing  the  grass  at  twilight  in  her  white  dress 
and  black  ribbons,  her  profile  distinct,  almost 
luminous  in  its  fairness,  against  the  mass  of  dark- 
green  shrubbery. 

Bodewin  spent  many  hours  that  summer  at  the 
black,  pigeon-holed  "  secretary"  in  the  dining- 
room,  employed  in  a  retrospect  of  accounts  which 
invariably  closed  with  the  balance  on  the  wrong 
side.  The  short,  warm  evenings  he  spent  with 
his  mother,  in  the  unlighted  parlor,  where  she  lay 
on  her  sofa  in  the  exhaustion  of  spent  and  tear 
less  grief.  In  those  silent  sessions  with  their 
dead,  mother  and  son  alike  felt  that  the  child  of 
the  house  should  have  no  part.  Her  share  in  the 
family  sorrow  had  been  less,  as  her  knowledge  of 
her  brother  was  less  than  theirs  ;  and  her  age  was 
not  ripe  for  sorrow.  Yet  they  would  have  keenly 
resented  any  outside  suggestion  that  Ellen  took 
their  great  and  common  loss  not  sufficiently  to 
heart. 

Eustis  came  for  a  week  the  first  time.  He 
spoke  of  business  engagements  in  New  York. 


109 

Bodewin  found  him  there  a  month  later,  looking 
haggard  and  seedy.  An  old  wound  he  had  car 
ried  since  Fredericksburg  had  been  troubling  him, 
he  said.  His  family  were  in  Genoa,  where  his 
father  held  a  consulship.  Bodewin  asked  him  to 
come  to  Cranberry  Beach  for  another  fortnight, 
and  incidentally  lent  him  a  little  money.  Again 
Eustis  and  Ellen  were  together,  and  in  the  still; 

midsummer  weather  another  tragedy  of  the  war 

,  I 
was  hurrying  to  its  consummation. 

On  the  edge  of  the  lawn  where  it  sloped  toward 
the  pied  salt  marshes,  there  was  a  granite  bowl 
der,  cool,  deeply  bedded  in  ferns,  and  shaded  by  a 
clump  of  maple  trees.  A  breeze  from  the  blue 
water  beyond  the  marshes  was  always  blowing  in 
their  tops.  On  the  hottest  days,  when  the  close- 
sheltered  house  dozed  in  the  sun,  Eustis,  with  the 
chess-board  and  the  hammock-cushions  under  his 
arm,  followed  by  Ellen  shading  her  forehead  with 
the  latest  magazine,  crossed  the  dry,  scintillating 
grass  to  this  island  of  coolness  and  shadow.  They 
were  as  secluded  here,  with  the  fields  of  heat 
making  a  wide  stillness  around  them,  as  Ferdi 
nand  and  Miranda  in  the  island  cave. 

There  were  sandy  paths  through  the  scrub  oak 
and  barberry  bushes  leading  to  the  shore,  and 


110  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

there  was  a  shallow  river  winding  through  the 
marshes,  down  which  they  drifted,  sitting  face  to 
face  but  seldom  speaking.  All  these  landways 
and  waterways  they  had  taken  together  before 
the  fortnight  was  over.  They  led  all  in  the  same 
direction,  and  ended  in  the  catastrophe  of  a 
young  girl's  life. 

In  those  days  men  were  worshipped  because 
they  were  soldiers  merely.  They  needed  no 
other  attribute,  and  Eustis  possessed  several 
others  beside  that  perilous  association  with  a 
brother's  memory.  When  after  the  second  visit 
Bodewin  heard  his  mother  ask  Eustis  to  come  to 
them  again  at  Christmas,  if  his  family  were  still 
abroad,  it  occurred  to  him  at  last  that  they  were 
seeing  a  good  deal  of  their  summer  guest.  On 
his  next  visit  to  New  York  he  took  pains  to  make 
some  inquiries  about  Eustis.  It  was  like  going  to 
a  shelf  piled  with  rubbish  and  pulling  at  a  corner 
of  the  lowest  object  of  the  heap.  He  found  a 
clew  to  one  shabby  little  affair  in  looking  up  Eus- 
tis's  antecedents,  and  the  rest  came  tumbling 
about  his  ears.  It  was  sickening,  but  it  was  a 
necessary  lesson  for  the  protector  of  a  family  of 
women  to  learn,  and  Bodewin  congratulated  him 
self  on  having  learned  it  in  good  season.  He  was 


Ill 

alone  with  his  mother  in  the  dining-room  on  the 
evening  of  his  return.  It  was  now  late  in  Octo 
ber,  and  the  evenings  were  cool.  The  blaze  of  a 
few  sticks  on  the  hearth  was  the  only  light  in  the 
room,  while  the  open  door  showed  a  broad  patch 
of  moonlight  on  the  hall  floor,  squared  with  the 
shadow  of  the  window  sash.  Bode  win  told  his 
mother  all  that  seemed  "necessary  of  his  discov 
eries  in  regard  to  Eustis. 

"  He  must  not  come  at  Christmas,  or  at  any 
other  time,"  he  concluded. 

Mrs.  Bodewin  seemed  troubled  beyond  a 
reasonable  conception  of  any  feeling  she  could 
possibly  have  in  the  matter.  Did  he  wish  the 
acquaintance  to  cease  ?  she  asked  her  son. 

"  On  the  part  of  the  women  of  the  family,  yes," 
he  replied. 

She  reminded  him  of  the  family  obligation. 
He  assured  her  he  would  take  care  of  that.  In 
the  greatest  agitation  she  begged  him  to  be  care 
ful  what  he  said,  for  his  sister's  sake. 

"What  has  Eustis  to  do  with  my  sister?" 
Bodewin  inquired,  and  then  the  blow  came.  Eus 
tis  had  asked  Ellen  to  be  his  wife.  She  loved 
him,  and  was  waiting  only  for  the  consent  of  her 
mother  and  brother.  The  mother  had  already 


112  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

given  hers.  Ellen  had  been  receiving  letters  from 
Eustis  since  his  last  visit.  Mrs.  Bodewin  had  felt 
obliged  to  speak  to  her  about  them.  She  had 
first  done  so  during  Bodewin's  absence,  and  had 
then  received  her  child's  confession. 

Eustis  had  offered  himself  to  her  before  his  de 
parture.  She  had  not  permitted  him  to  speak  to 
her  family  then,  because  the  time  had  seemed  unfit. 

"  She  was  not  ashamed  to  do  the  thing  she  was 
ashamed  to  speak  of !  "  Bodewin  burst  out  pas 
sionately. 

"  She  is  but  a  child !  What  else  can  she  be  ?  " 
the  mother  pleaded.  "  And  she  has  not  answered 
his  letters  or  given  him  her  promise  except  on 
conditions." 

"  Eustis  is  not  the  man  for  her  to  be  making 
conditions  with,  mother  !  If  she  is  a  child,  she 
must  be  treated  like  one.  She  must  be  prevented 
from  doing  herself  this  injury." 

"  It  is  done,  it  is  done ! "  the  mother  wailed, 
"and  we  have  done  it.  It  lies  at  our  door." 

"It  lies  at  my  door!"  said  Bodewin.  "Mother, 
I  no  more  imagined  any  danger  to  Ellen  in  his 
being  here  than  to  you.  How  was  I  to  know  a 
girl  is  like  that?  To  be  won  in  a  week,  in  a 
month,  by  the  first  man  who  looks  at  her!  To 


BODEWTN'S  SISTER.  113 

be  thinking  of  a  lover,  with  her  brother  not  six 
months  in  his  grave  !  " 

"  Hush ! ''  his  mother  said,  rising  and  pointing 
towards  the  door  as  she  faltered  towards  him. 
He  turned  and  confronted  his  sister.  She  had 
heard  his  words  distinctly  in  the  quiet  house 
as  she  came  down  the  stairs  from  her  chamber. 
What  influence  Bode  win  might  have  gained  over 
her,  when  his  revolt  against  the  pang  of  self- 
conviction  cooled,  had  she  never  heard  those  wild 
words,  may  be  questioned.  As  it  was,  the  insult 
had  struck  too  deep  for  explanation  or  retraction. 
There  was,  perhaps,  enough  of  truth  in  the  words 
to  make  them  unforgivable.  Bodewin  patiently 
went  over  the  charges  against  Eustis  with  his 
mother,  and  in  turn  she  endeavored  to  set  them 
before  Ellen.  The  effect  they  produced  was  one 
of  repulsion,  not  towards  the  accused,  but  the 
accuser.  She  was  prepared  for  prejudice  in  one 
by  whom  she  had  herself  been  misjudged,  and  the 
seeds  of  counsel  fell  upon  stony  ground.  There 
were  long,  heart-breaking  arguments  between 
mother  and  daughter,  and  hopeless  consultations 
between  mother  and  son.  But  the  brother  and 
sister  were  no  longer  on  terms  of  argument  or 
consultation,  still  less  of  entreaty. 


114  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

The  struggle  ended  as  it  must  always  end 
between  young  love  and  old  decrees.  It  was  a 
relief  at  last  when  the  marriage  took  place,  two 
years  later.  Ellen's  position  had  come  to  be  that 
of  a  martyr  persecuted  by  her  brother  for  her 
faithfulness  to  her  lover ;  for  the  mother  had  not 
been  able  to  keep  a  consistent  attitude  of  protest, 
and  long  before  the  marriage  took  place  had 
offered  but  a  passive  resistance.  Her  losses  had 
weakened  her  power  of  enduring  the  pain  of 
those  she  loved.  The  risks  of  Ellen's  marriage 
were  in  the  future,  while  the  sight  of  her  unhap- 
piness  was  an  ever-present  torture.  Nor  was  it 
possible  for  a  woman  with  Mrs.  Bodewin's  experi 
ence  of  men  and  of  marriage  to  conceive  what 
those  risks  were  likely  to  be  with  one  like  Eustis. 
She  had  no  real  conception  of  Eustis  himself,  —  a 
man  who  could  not  be  relied  upon  even  in  the 
direction  of  his  weaknesses,  for  with  a  fatal  incon- 
I  sistency  he  had  not  been  weak  in  his  pursuit 
of  Ellen.  He  had  been  as  true  to  his  purpose 
as  if  the  truth  were  in  him. 

According  to  his  weakness  and  her  strength  he 
no  doubt  loved  her,  and  the  purest  sentiment  of 
his  life  kept  him  at  his  highest  level  during  the 
months  of  his  probation.  There  were  times  when 


115 

Bodewin  was  ready  to  believe  that  it  was  he  who 
was  the  victim  of  hallucination,  and  that  Ellen's 
case  was  indeed  one  of  persecution,  so  filled  was  the 
house  with  that  sense  of  her  outraged  love  which 
her  mute  presence  conveyed.  But  on  the  day  of 
her  marriage,  in  that  searching  light  in  which 
love,  acknowledged  and  triumphant,  exhibits  it 
self,  Bodewin  saw  that  he  was  not  mistaken.  In 
certain  sure  and  subtle  ways  he  felt  that  the 
bridegroom  was  hopelessly  beneath  the  dignity  of 
his  part.  It  could  only  be  a  question  of  time. 

It  was  now  thirteen  years  since  the  day  of  his 
sister's  marriage,  and  during  ten  of  those  years 
Bodewin  had  held  himself  ready  for  the  time 
when  she  would  need  him.  His  life  had  been 
ordered  solely  with  reference  to  that  time  and 
that  atonement  he  believed  he  would  be  per 
mitted  to  make  his  sister  for  the  husband  he  had 
given  her  and  the  father  he  had  given  her 
children.  He  thought  no  more  of  marriage  for 
himself  than  if  his  mother  and  sister  had  been  the 
only  women  in  the  world.  He  felt  that  his  sister 
held  a  mortgage  on  his  life,  and  year  by  year  the 
unpaid  interest  went  to  swell  the  debt. 

Eustis  took  his  young  wife  to  Virginia  City, 
where  he  began  his  business  career  as  a  broker  in 


116 

mines  and  real  estate.  In  the  course  of  a  year  or 
two  he  had  joined  that  wandering  community 
which  follows  the  changes  of  luck  from  one 
mining  camp  to  another. 

Bodewin  made  mines  his  business  also,  in  a 
different  way,  partly  that  he  might  not  lose  sight 
of  his  sister  on  her  unblest  pilgrimage,  partly 
because  the  event  had  proved  that  he  was  no 
farmer,  and  he  needed  to  put  money  in  his  purse 
for  the  time  when  his  sister  would  accept  his 
atonement.  The  mother  still  lived  at  Cranberry 
Beach,  in  the  retirement  that  suited  her  health 
and  circumstances,  with  an  unmarried  sister  as 
her  companion.  Those  lapses  of  memory  which 
had  first  warned  Bodewin  of  the  break  in  his 
mother's  strength  were  now  her  greatest  mercy. 

Ellen  seldom  wrote,  never  unless  in  times 
of  comparative  prosperity ;  and  as  these  grew 
more  and  more  infrequent,  the  letters  came  at 
longer  and  longer  intervals.  They  knew  that 
children  were  born  to  her,  and  that  she  had  lost 
children,  but  of  the  nameless  humiliations  of  her 
life,  of  the  eddy  of  shabby  cares  in  which  it  went 
round  and  round,  wearing  into  her  soul,  they 
could  but  silently  conjecture ;  and  as  one  pro 
phecy  after  another  of  all  those  that  had  been 


BODEWIN'S  SISTEK.  117 

made  concerning  her  marriage  fulfilled  itself,  she 
wrapped  herself  more  and  more  closely  in  the  fate 
she  had  chosen,  and  hid  her  wounds  with  a  pride 
that  seemed  all  that  was  left  of  her  love  for  her 
brother.  The  loving  can  never  understand  those 
who  have  ceased  to  love ;  and  as  little  as  he  could 
comprehend  the  sundering  of  a  life-tie  like  that 
between  himself  and  the  sister  he  had  so  inno 
cently  and  hopelessly  injured,  still  less  could 
Bodewin  fathom  the  mystery  of  a  weak  man's 
hold  on  the  life  of  a  strong  woman,  who  holds 
forlornly  to  her  own  pure  vow,  as  the  sanctifica- 
tion  of  the  shame  it  covers. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE   TENDER   MERCIES   OF   THE   WICKED. 


day,  now  three  years  gone,  in  the  Mining 
Exchange  in  San  Francisco,  Bodewin  took  up  a 
Deadwood  paper,  a  week  old  by  its  date,  and  saw 
a  notice  of  the  death  of  Frank  Eustis.  His  body 
had  been  found  in  the  street,  dead  by  his  own 
hand;  "probable  cause,  domestic  anxieties  and 
drink."  The  notice  was  headed,  "Good-bye, 
Frank  !  "  Bodewin  learned  more  of  the  affair 
later  in  Deadwood,  from  Henry  Wilkinson,  a 
lawyer  of  his  acquaintance,  with  whom  Eustis 
had  spoken  last.  Wilkinson  had  met  Eustis 
about  twelve  o'clock  the  night  of  his  death,  as 
he  himself  was  coming  out  of  the  Varieties  Thea 
tre  with  the  crowd.  Eustis  was  hurrying  along 
through  a  light  fall  of  snow,  bareheaded  and  half 
wild  with  drink. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Henry,  lend  me  five  dollars  !  " 
he  had  said.  "I  expect  my  wife  and  four  chil 
dren  in  by  the  stage  to-morrow  night,  and  I 

118 


THE  TENDER   MERCIES   OF   THE  WICKED.    119 

haven't  so  much  as  a  roof  to  put  over  their 
heads." 

"  That  wife-and-children  game  is  about  played, 
Frank,"  had  been  Wilkinson's  reply.  Eustis  had 
been  borrowing  money  for  six  months  or  more 
on  the  strength  of  the  imminent  arrival  of  his 
family. 

"  They  are  coming  this  time,  by  God !  But 
they  won't  find  me  here  ! "  were  his  last  words  as 
he  ran  on  down  the  street,  slipping  and  falling  at 
last  in  the  soft  snow. 

Wilkinson  had  pulled  him  up,  set  him  on  his 
feet,  brushed  the  snow  from  his  hair  and  neck, 
and,  putting  his  own  hat  on  his  head,  had  left 
him  staring  stupidly  before  him. 

He  was  found  the  next  morning  stiff  and  cold, 
with  his  head  on  the  curb-stone  and  a  bullet-hole 
in  the  side  of  it. 

The  night  following  that  morning  Ellen  Eustis 
arrived  with  her  children.  There  were  but  three. 
To  the  last  Eustis  had  not  been  able  to  help  lying 
a  little  in  an  unimportant  way.  His  wife  had 
come  by  stage,  two  hundred  miles  across  the 
northern  desert.  She  had  waited,  in  the  last 
poor  refuge  where  he  had  left  her,  for  Eustis  to 
return  or  send  for  her.  His  letters  spoke  of  his 


120  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

success  in  the  new  camp,  but  there  were  no  inclo 
sures  of  money  and  no  summons  for  her  to  join 
him  and  share  his  success.  At  last,  when  her 
means  of  support  were  nearly  exhausted,  she  had 
taken  what  money  remained  to  her  and  desper 
ately  followed  her  husband,  to  what  end  she  knew 
not,  except  that  it  could  not  be  worse  than  the  one 
she  had  in  view.  The  man  who  probably  saved  her 
from  dying  on  that  journey  was  Colonel  William 
Harkins.  As  an  experienced  traveller,  the  Colonel 
had  secured  for  himself  the  entire  back  seat  of 
the  coach,  and  with  lunch-basket,  rugs,  seal-skin 
coat,  cigars,  and  paper  novels,  had  expected  to 
make  the  trip  across  the  frozen  alkali  plains  in 
comparative  comfort. 

It  was  just  his  luck,  so  he  commiserated  himself 
as  he  surveyed  his  fellow-passengers,  to  find  in 
front  of  him,  occupying  the  middle  seat,  a  wan- 
cheeked  young  mother  with  three  pretty,  thinly- 
clad  children,  vis-a-vis  with  two  Chinamen  and  a 
Jew  "  drummer,"  riding  on  the  forward  seat. 

The  first  day's  ride  was  not  half  over  before 
Harkins  had  "  borrowed "  two  of  the  children, 
and  was  telling  them  stories  and  romping  with 
them,  while  the  mother  from  time  to  time  looked 
back  and  smiled  at  the  sound  of  their  laughter. 


THE  TENDER   MERCIES   OF   THE  WICKED.   121 

When  the  boy  grew  sleepy  he  helped  her  to  make 
a  bed  for  him  on  the  seat  beside  her,  and  arranged 
his  travelling-bag  under  her  feet,  that  she  might 
the  more  easily  support  the  child's  head  in  her 
lap.  At  the  squalid  meal  station  he  thrust  her 
into  the  warmest  corner  by  the  fire,  and  bribed, 
from  the  meagre  hospitality  of  the  place,  the  best 
it  could  furnish  for  her  comfort.  He  led  the  way 
back  to  the  stage  with  the  youngster  on  his  shoul 
der,  and,  putting  him  into  his  mother's  arms,  beg 
ged  her  to  keep  his  seat  for  him  while  he  walked 
on  a  mile  or  so  for  exercise.  Not  to  be  burdened 
with  it  while  walking,  he  threw  off  his  fur  coat 
and  asked  permission  to  wrap  her  and  the  little 
fellow  in  it,  until  he  should  need  it  again.  For 
the  little  fellow's  sake  she  allowed  him  to  do  so. 
Laughingly  he  cuddled  the  two  little  girls  in  his 
rugs,  and  bidding  them  let  no  one  into  his  seat 
in  his  absence,  trudged  on  ahead  of  the  stage. 
When  it  overtook  him  he  climbed  up  beside  the 
driver  and  sat  there  smoking  until  it  grew  dusk. 
Looking  back  into  the  coach,  he  saw  that  the 
mother  and  children  were  asleep,  snugly  wrapped 

in  his  rugs  and  furs.     He  called  himself  a  d 

fool,  took  something  to  keep  out  the  cold,  and 
crawling  down  into  the  boot  under  the  driver's 


122  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

blankets,  slept  there  all  night  on  the  mail  bags. 
The  mother  began  the  next  day  with  an  effort  at 
independence,  but  was  soon  too  much  exhausted 
by  the  unavoidable  hardships  of  the  journey  and 
her  children's  constant  claims  on  her  strength  to 
resist  the  ingenious  and  persistent  kindness  of 
her  fellow-traveller.  The  Colonel's  luxuries  were 
her  necessities.  He  diverted  them  to  her  use 
with  that  understanding,  cheerfully  insisted  on 
by  him,  and  helplessly  admitted  by  herself. 

The  stage  office  was  buzzing  with  talk  of  the 
latest  camp  tragedy  on  the  evening  of  the  travel 
lers'  arrival. 

"  Oh,  it  is  only  some  poor  cuss  got  cleaned  out 
at  faro,  and  shot  himself  last  night,"  Harkins  re 
plied  to  the  young  mother's  inquiries,  as  she  sat 
with  her  children  around  her  in  a  corner  of  the 
crowded  room.  "  What  did  you  say  your  hus 
band's  first  name  was,  Mrs.  Eustis?  —  Frank? 
Well,  see  here  !  You'd  better  get  a  room  here  to 
night.  He  didn't  get  your  telegram  most  likely. 
I  don't  seem  to  see  him  anywheres  about.  We'll 
look  him  up  first  thing  in  the  morning.  Those 
children  ought  to  have  something  to  eat.  I'll 
have  something  sent  up  to  you.  Now  don't  you 
worry,  will  you?  You  leave  me  to  find  your  hus- 


THE  TENDER  MERCIES  OF  THE  WICKED.  123 

band."  So,  talking  rapidly,  he  hurried  her  away 
from  the  merciless  gossip  of  the  crowd,  which 
suspended  its  words  long  enough  to  stare  at  poor 
Frank's  widow  as  she  passed  out  of  the  room. 

Yes;  it  was  just  his  luck  —  that  the  husband  of 
his  pretty,  pale  fellow-traveller  should  be  the 
dead  man  whom  the  Masons  were  to  bury  to 
morrow  ;  that  she  should  be  nearing  the  time  of 
her  woman's  utmost  need,  penniless,  homeless, 
without  a  friend  in  the  place.  The  next  day  he 
took  her  to  a  cabin  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town. 
It  was  her  husband's  house,  he  told  her.  This 
was  the  furniture  Eustis  had  bought  in  prepara 
tion  for  her  coming.  These  trifles  of  groceries 
and  what  not  he  had  ordered  in  her  husband's 
name ;  it  was  all  the  same.  Evidently  he  had  not 
been  housekeeping  himself  and  was  a  little  hur 
ried  by  her  telegram.  Then  he  had  received  it? 
—  Where  was  he?  What  was  he  keeping  from 
her  ?  He  met  the  question  simply  and  squarely, 
cursing  his  luck  again  that  there  was  no  one  but 
himself  to  meet  it.  He  had  occasion  to  call  himself 
a  fool  with  profane  emphasis  more  than  once  that 
day,  because  he  could  not  forget  the  new-made 
widow  and  her  forlorn  little  brood.  He  men 
tioned  her  case  to  a  lady  friend  of  his,  who 


124  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

promised  to  look  after  her  should  she  need  a 
woman's  help.  Harkins's  lady  friend  was  one 
of  those  who  have  lost  all  for  themselves,  yet 
still  have  something  to  give  to  another's  dis 
tress. 

Frank  Eustis's  wife  had  long  ago  learned  how 
cruel  are  the  tender  mercies  of  the  feebly  wicked. 
It  was  only  one  more  step  in  the  long,  downward 
path  she  had  taken  beside  him,  —  the  last  step,  — 
and  it  was  characteristic  of  him  that  he  had  left 
her  to  take  it  alone. 

It  is  a  ten-days'  journey,  including  the  stage 
ride,  from  San  Francisco  to  Deadwood,  with  the 
roads  in  good  condition.  The  roads  were  at 
their  worst,  and  Bodewin,  starting  immediately 
on  the  news  of  Eustis's  death,  was  two  weeks  on 
the  way.  He  reached  Deadwood  one  evening 
about  ten  o'clock,  bruised,  supperless,  and  stiff 
with  cold.  The  usual  crowd  was  gathered  in  the 
bar-room  of  the  North-western  Hotel.  It  seemed 
as  good  a  place  as  any  to  begin  inquiries  for  his 
sister.  He  was  sure  to  find  some  of  Eustis's 
friends  there.  When  Bodewin  asked  news  of 
Eustis's  wife  there  was  a  dead  silence  in  the 
room.  Colonel  Harkins  stepped  out  of  the 
crowd,  and  taking  Bodewin  apart,  asked :  — 


THE   TENDER   MERCIES   OF   THE   WICKED.    125 

"  Who  might  you  be,  inquiring  for  Frank 
Eustis's  wife  ?  " 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Eustis's  brother,"  Bodewin  re 
plied. 

"  The  devil  you  are ! "  he  remarked,  in  the 
same  low,  deliberate  tone.  "  You're  a  sweet 
brother !  Why  didn't  you  get  in  here  two 
weeks  ago  ?  " 

Bodewin  did  not  make  the  mistake  of  resenting 
this  singular  reception  of  a  stranger.  He  was 
familiar  enough  with  frontier  manners  to  under 
stand  it  as  some  rude  form  of  championship  of  his 
sister,  founded  on  his  own-  apparent  or  fancied 
neglect. 

"  Never  mind  about  two  weeks  ago,"  he  re 
plied.  "  Do  you  know  where  my  sister  is  now  ?  " 

Harkins  looked  him  over  again  carefully  before 
he  spoke.  "Better  take  a  drink  and  eat  some 
thing." 

Bodewin  declined  to  act  on  this  suggestion,  and 
showed  some  restiveness  under  Harkins's  pro 
longed  interest  in  him. 

"  Come  on,  then,"  the  latter  said,  and  led  the 
way  into  the  street.  Walking  fast,  without 
speaking,  they  came  to  that  low  cabin  in  the 
thinly  built  part  of  the  town  where  the  widow 


126  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

had  found  shelter.  Harkins  knocked  at  the  door 
softly,  or  so  Bode  win  fancied. 

"  Is  my  sister  not  well  ?  "  he  asked. 

"She  is  well,"  Harkins  answered,  solemnly, 
"since  two  o'clock  last  night." 

He  left  Bode  win  waiting  at  the  door.  After 
some  delay  it  was  opened  by  a  white-faced,  red- 
cheeked  young  woman,  who  stared  at  Bodewin, 
and  looked  as  if  she  might  have  simpered  a  little 
if  she  had  been  less  sleepy. 

"  Take  a  chair,"  she  said.  "  Be  you  a  friend  of 
hers  ?  "  indicating  with  a  motion  of  her  hand  the 
closed  door  of  an  adjoining  room. 

"I  am  her  brother,"  Bodewin  replied. 

"  You  don't  say  !  Where  are  you  from?  " 

Bodewin  mentioned  the  place. 

"  How  long  is  it  since  you  seen  her  ?  " 

"  Nearly  ten  years." 

"  Well,  I  declare !  I  guess  she's  changed  some. 
D'you  want  to  see  her  to-night?  She  ain't  laid 
out  yet.  There  wasn't  anything  of  her  own  fit  to 
put  on  her.  She  could  'a'  worn  a  white  silk  of 
mine ;  it's  some  soiled,  but  it  might  'a'  done  with 
lace  over  the  front  of  the  waist.  But  the  Colonel 
wouldn't  hear  to  it.  He's  having  a  splendid  cash 
mere  robe  made  for  her." 


THE  TENDER  MEKCIES  OF  THE  WICKED.  127 

Bodewin  got  up  and  went  to  the  door.  He 
leaned  in  the  open  doorway,  with  his  face  towards 
the  cool  night,  while  a  faintness  that  had  over 
come  him  passed.  He  felt  the  woman's  hand  on 
his  arm.  "  Here,  drink  this  !  You  look  like  you 
was  goin'  to  be  sick."  She  held  a  tumbler  half 
full  of  whiskey  towards  him.  He  asked  for  water 
and  she  dipped  him  a  glassful  from  a  pail  beside 
the  door. 

"  You'd  better  not  see  her  to-night,"  the 
woman  persisted,  following  him  into  the  room 
again,  "  though  she  don't  look  bad.  She  ain't 
been  sick  long.  Did  you  know  there  was  a  little 
baby  ?  It's  dead,  too,  poor  thing !  I  expect  Ms 
mother'll  be  glad  it  didn't  live.  There's  enough 
of  'em  to  leave  for  other  folks  to  take  care  of." 

"Whose  mother?"  Bodewin  asked,  lifting  his 
head  to  look  at  the  speaker. 

"  Frank's  mother.  She's  been  sent  for.  Didn't 
you  know  ?  " 

"  Who  sent  for  her  ?  " 

"  The  Colonel  did." 

"Will  you  tell  me  who  is  the  Colonel?" 

"  Ain't  you  acquainted  with  Colonel  Bill  Har- 
kins?  It  was  lucky  for  Frank's  wife  he  didn't 
stand  on  no  ceremony.  They  rode  in  the  same 


128  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

coach  from  the  end  of  the  track.  Why,  man,  he 
done  everything  for  her !  Fed  her  and  kep'  her 
warm,  and  tended  her  young  ones,  and  she  not  fit 
for  travellin'.  He's  paid  her  way  ever  since  she 
got  in.  This  here  house  he's  rented  for  her,  and 
everything  in  it  was  bought  with  his  money, 
though  he  never  let  her  know  it.  You  don't 
know  the  Colonel  ?  Well,  it's  about  time  you 
did ! " 

"  Will  you  let  me  see  my  sister  ? "  Bodewin 
said,  rising. 

He  was  taken  into  the  cold  inner  chamber, 
where  on  a  clean  white  bed  a  sheet,  smoothly 
spread,  covered  without  concealing  a  motionless 
woman's  form.  There  was  the  outline  of  the  low 
pillowed  head,  the  hands  unstirred  upon  the  breast, 
the  small  thin  body  sloping  downwards,  the  little 
feet  that  propped  the  sheet  scarcely  higher  than  a 
child's.  Bodewin  knelt  on  the  floor  by  the  bed 
side,  smitten  hard  and  deep  in  every  spot  that 
anguish  knows,  —  crushed,  broken  utterly.  And 
the  woman  beside  him  —  whom  no  one  wept  for, 
though  she  was  more  dead  than  death  itself  to  all 
that  makes  a  woman's  life  —  hid  with  her  thin 
hands  the  roses  that  stared  on  her  white  cheeks, 
and  sobbed  aloud. 


THE  TENDER   MEECIES   OF  THE   WICKED.    129 

Did  she  weep  for  herself  only,  as  a  child  weeps 
at  the  sight'  of  grief,  or  remembering  that  laughter 
and  jests  of  men,  nevermore  men's  despairing  ten 
derness,  and  hopeless,  hard-wrung  tears,  were  her 
portion  forever  ? 

When  he  was  alone  with  his  dead,  Bodewin 
folded  down  the  sheet  and  looked  at  what  lay  be 
neath.  He  had  known  in  part,  and  prophesied 
according  to  his  knowledge,  but  he  was  in  the 
presence  now  of  that  before  which  prophecies 
shall  fail  and  tongues  shall  cease  and  knowledge 
shall  vanish  away.  In  the  mercy  of  God  it  was 
well  with  her  at  last,  and  with  the  child  that  lay 
beside  her  in  its  long  sleep  that  life  had  broken 
only  for  a  few  feeble  breaths. 

Bodewin  would  have  found  it  impossible  to  es 
cape  from  the  details  of  his  sister's  last  hours,  had 
he  wished  to  do  so.  They  were  in  the  mouths 
of  strangers,  w^ho  made  them  the  medium  of 
intercourse  unsought  by  him  and  unspeakably 
harrowing.  He  knew,  from  various  sources,  the 
full  extent  of  his  indebtedness  to  Colonel  Har- 
kins,  through  his  sister.  The  conjunction  was 
torture  to  him.  He  tried  in  vain  to  get  rid  of  the 
pecuniary  part  of  the  burden  at  the  least,  but  the 
Colonel  refused  to  overhaul  his  back  accounts. 


130  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"  It's  all  right,"  lie  repeated.  "  I  haven't  spent 
any  money  on  her  to  hurt  anybody,  —  nothing 
more  than  any  man  would  do  for  a  lady  pas 
senger." 

The  orphaned  children  had  been  taken  home  by 
a  respectable  matron  of  the  neighborhood,  whose 
offer  of  assistance  had  come  too  late  to  benefit  the 
mother.  The  possibility  had  never  occurred  to 
Bodewin  that  his  sister's  children  might  be  left 
to  any  one's  care  but  his  own,  in  case  of  their 
father's  death  or  failure  to  provide  for  them. 
But,  between  the  day  of  the  funeral  and  that  of 
Mrs.  Eustis's  arrival  in  the  camp,  he  had  time  to 
think  over  his  sister's  last  expressed  wish,  and  to 
endeavor  to  reconcile  himself  to  its  provisions. 
She  had  chosen  to  leave  her  children  to  her 
husband's  relations,  ignoring  her  own  blood.  It 
was  but  the  finishing  touch  to  the  devoted  consis 
tency  of  her  wifehood.  They  were  his  children 
as  well  as  hers ;  though  by  his  life  he  had  forfeited 
a  father's  right,  in  death  she  would  not  deprive 
him  of  a  father's  place  in  his  children's  memories. 
His  own  mother  should  exonerate  him  and  atone 
for  his  shortcomings  in  the  new  generation  that 
carries  with  it  always  the  seed  of  the  last  one's 
blighted  hopes. 


THE   TENDER   MERCIES   OF   THE   WICKED.    131 

Boclewin  accepted  his  sister's  decision,  not 
without  a  forlorn  pride  in  her  steadfastness. 
But  it  left  him  objectless,  purposeless,  with  his 
atonement  on  his  hands.  He  had  waited  long, 
had  kept  the  chambers  of  his  heart  empty  and 
ready  for  the  guest  who  had  failed  him  at  the  last 
— who  he  now  knew  had  never  meant  to  come. 
He  fell  to  questioning  his  own  motives.  There 
had  been  smoke  in  the  incense  doubtless:  there 
had  been  blood  upon  the  victim.  He  was  now 
but  thirty  years  old,  with  that  purity  of  color  and 
sensitiveness  of  expression  which  is  said  to  be 
nature's  reward  for  a  life  of  spiritual  constancy ; 
but  he  felt  that  he  had  parted  with  youth,  and 
that  the  "  gains  for  all  his  losses "  could  be 
quickly  counted. 

It  remained  for  him  now  only  to  see  Mrs. 
Eustis  and  settle  on  his  sister's  children  an 
annuity  from  the  money  he  had  kept  intact  for 
her  use,  and  to  say  good-bye  to  Colonel  Harkins. 
He  needed  no  one  to  tell  him  who  Colonel  Billy 
Harkins  was.  It  was  only  as  "  the  Colonel "  in  a 
land  of  gratuitous  titles  he  had  failed  to  recog 
nize  him.  He  would  have  parted  with  his  right 
hand  if  he  could  so  have  sundered  the  connection 
between  them.  Did  the  Colonel  perceive  how  it 


132  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

galled  Bodewin,  and  privately  enjoy  his  helpless 
ness  under  the  obligation  ?  When  the  two  men 
shook  hands  at  parting,  Bodewin  asked  Harkins 
to  remember  that  the  man  who  had  been  as  a 
brother  to  his  sister  should  be  as  a  brother  to  him 
in  so  far  as  he  might  be  able  to  serve  him  or  his 
in  the  future. 

"  All  right,  brother  Bodewin,"  Harkins  replied, 
cheerfully,  renewing  his  hard  grasp  on  Bodewin's 
!hand,  and  meeting  his  eyes  with  a  look  as  hard  as 
his  grasp.  "  I  hope  you  will  know  your  brother 
when  you  see  him  again." 

All  this  was  now  in  the  past  three  years.  The 
mercy  Bodewin  had  been  most  alive  to  at  the 
time  was  the  fact  that  his  mother  was  no  longer 
capable  of  a  great  sorrow.  The  stretched  chords 
had  ceased  to  vibrate.  She  lived  in  a  painless 
dream  of  the  time  before  the  war,  when  her 
husband  had  been  with  her  and  her  children  had 
not  left  her  arms.  All  that  had  happened  since 
then  could  only  be  recalled  from  the  outside,  and 
realized  by  her  with  an  effort. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  VALLEY  TRAIL. 

MRS.  CRAIG,  having  entered  upon  a  scheme 
of  entertainment  for  her  young  guest,  pursued  it 
with  enthusiasm.  Even  the  amusements  of  that 
unrestful  place  and  climate  took  on  a  certain 
fierceness  of  energy.  The  mountains  were  a 
perpetual  challenge ;  the  valley,  with  its  bright, 
sinuous  river,  running  out  of  sight  among  gray 
willows,  a  perpetual  invitation.  Pleasure  hurried 
its  pace  at  the  brief  summer's  warning.  Quick 
pulses  beat  themselves  out,  and  young  life  that 
exulted  in  perilous  effort  sank  before  the  prize 
was  won,  and  gave  place  to  the  next  champion  of 
the  hour.  Josephine  was  half  fascinated,  half 
troubled  by  the  spirit  of  the  place.  Her  morn 
ings  were  gay,  but  her  evenings  were  restless  and 
often  mysteriously  clouded.  With  Mrs.  Craig  as 
chaperon  and  Mr.  Hillbury  as  guide,  she  had 
climbed  her  peak,  had  gone  down  into  her  mine, 
133 


134  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

had  visited  smelting  furnaces  by  night  and  hy 
draulic  washings  by  day,  had  caught  her  trout 
in  the  waters  of  the  "Lake  Fork,"  and  had  her 
thrilling  gallops  in  the  valley.  She  had  talked 
and  laughed  more  than  ever  in  her  life  before,  and 
never  had  she  been,  perhaps,  less  soundly  happy. 
She  had  met  Bodewin  constantly,  but  their  ac 
quaintance,  which  had  burst  the  bud  with  such  a 
shock,  seemed  likely  to  wither  half  blown.  Bode 
win  had  relapsed  unexpectedly  from  his  stress  of 
confidence  into  a  silence  and  backwardness  which 
to  Josephine  could  only  signify  some  decided 
change  in  his  feelings  towards  herself.  Not  to 
seem  to  remind  him  of  his  former  peremptory 
claim  on  her  sympathy,  she  carefully  avoided  any 
allusion  to  the  day  of  their  long  argument  on  the 
rocks ;  nor  did  Bodewin  ever  refer  to  it.  They 
were  not  often  alone  together,  but  when  they 
'were,  Bodewin  found  it  more  difficult  than  he 
would  have  believed  to  tell  his  story  to  this  young 
girl.  There  was  an  appalling  egotism  about  it. 
In  one  way  it  would  be  like  telling  it  to  a  summer 
morning.  He  and  his  troubles  would  rest  almost 
as  lightly  on  her  consciousness,  so  he  reflected ; 
but  the  morning  did  not  fix  such  disturbing  eyes 
upon  one's  face  when  appealed  to. 


THE  VALLEY  TRAIL.  135 

One  opportunity  after  another  he  let  slip,  until 
a  day  came  which  found  him  again  lounging  along 
in  his  saddle  at  Josephine's  side.  They  were  rid 
ing  in  the  valley  with  twenty  miles  of  unbroken 
turf  before  them,  and  not  a  human  creature  or 
habitation  in  sight.  Beyond  the  next  long  swell 
there  was  a  milk  ranch  where  they  were  to  wait 
for  Mr.  Newbold  and  Mrs.  Craig,  but  that  was  yet 
three  miles  away.  A  wind,  steady  and  soft,  blow 
ing  up  through  the  great  gate  of  the  mountains, 
ruffled  the  wild  grasses  on  either  side  the  trail. 
The  river  showed,  in  sunny,  pebbly  reaches, 
between  the  pale  willows  turning  silvery  in  the 
breeze.  The  snow-born  Arethusa  was  not  swifter- 
footed  or  more  musical  than  this  unwritten,  un 
sung  Arkansas  of  the  high  valleys,  not  a  day's 
journey  from  its  cradle.  They  had  galloped  until 
their  blood  was  up  ;  they  had  paced  side  by  side 
in  silence  till  it  had  subsided  into  the  warmth 
that  is  just  enough  to  give  a  man  daring  for  a 
difficult  topic  of  conversation.  Bodewin  found 
that  he  needed  all  his  courage.  The  summer- 
morning  theory  was  all  very  well,  but  when,  at 
the  first  grave  accent  in  his  voice,  Josephine 
turned  upon  him  that  beautiful  dark  regard  he 
feared  and  yet  longed  to  meet,  his  heart  grew 


136  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

weak  within  him.  He  told  his  story  badly,  touch 
ing  reluctantly  on  the  points  where  he  was  sorest, 
omitting  parts  of  it  altogether,  and  in  his  dread 
of  overstatement  consciously  making  the  worst  of 
his  case. 

"You  understand,"  he  concluded  awkwardly, 
"that  when  I  surveyed  Harkins's  two  claims  it 
was  not  a  business  transaction.  He  did  not  em 
ploy  me.  I  am  not  a  surveyor  of  mineral  claims. 
Harkins's  discovery  was  one  of  the  first  in  the 
camp,  and  at  that  time  there  was  riot  an  accred 
ited  surveyor  within  a  hundred  miles.  I  offered 
it  as  the  first  service  it  came  in  my  way  to  do  for 
[him  —  the  first  instalment  011  my  debt.  You  see 
what  a  thing  it  would  be  to  use  it  against  him  in 
court  —  the  record  of  this  affair  between  us  —  not 
of  business,  but  of  honor,  —  to  defeat  him  by 
means  of  it.  It  would  be  like  trapping  him  in 
the  name  of  my  boasted  gratitude.  I  would 
rather  be  shot  than  do  it." 

"  Still,  I  think  you  will  do  it,"  Josephine  said. 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  why  you  think 
so?" 

"Because  if  you  had  been  satisfied  not  to  do  it, 
those  words  of  mine  would  have  been  forgotten 
as  soon  as  they  were  spoken." 


THE  VALLEY  TRAIL.  137 

"  I  never  said  I  was  satisfied  not  to  do  it,  but 
that  is  a  very  different  thing  from  doing  it." 

Josephine  was  silent. 

"Many  things,"  Bodewin  continued,  "which 
are  purely  matters  of  private  business  get  abroad 
in  a  place  like  this.  Harkins  knows  I  have  once 
positively  refused  to  testify  against  him.  He  also 
knows  that  I  have  since  been  offered  in  set  terms 
a  large  sum  of  money  by  the  parties  who  wish  me 
to  do  so." 

Josephine  blushed  painfully  at  these  words,  but 
Bodewin  went  on  without  perceiving  her  embar 
rassment. 

"Stating  the  situation  roughly  as  a  man  like 
Harkins  would  see  it,  what  motive  do  you  think 
he  would  be  likely  to  impute  to  me  were  I  now  to 
change  my  mind?  Would  he  not  think  I  had 
consented  to  do  for  money  what  I  had  refused  to 
do  from  an  honorable  motive  ?  " 

"  Would  he  think  you  had  been  bribed  ? " 
asked  Josephine. 

Bodewin  suddenly  remembered  that  he  was  on 
dangerous  ground.  It  was  so  difficult  to  keep  the 
fact  of  Josephine's  antecedents  in  view.  He 
avoided  the  question. 

"  Theoretically,  of  course,  Harkins's  opinion  of 


138  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

my  motives  is  of  no  consequence,  but  actually  I 
cannot  afford  to  disgust  him  with  me  while  he  has 
this  hold  upon  me.  He  is  capable  of  anything. 
Chivalrous  as  he  was  to  my  sister  in  her  extrem 
ity,  the  heart  of  a  gentleman  is  not  in  him,  or  in 
any  of  his  kind.  He  would  spare  no  man  or 
woman,  living  or  dead,  to  reach  me,  if  he  believed 
I  had  betrayed  him.  I  cannot  sacrifice  my  sister's 
name  even  to  truth  and  justice." 

"  Do  the  dead  require  more  of  us  than  the  liv 
ing  ?  I  am  sure  no  living  sister  could  endure  that 
her  brother  should  be  hampered  in  his  public 
duties  by  his  love  for  her." 

"You  have  quite  the  Roman  idea  of  the 
comparative  insignificance  of  the  family  claim," 
said  Bodewin,  smiling  rather  bitterly ;  "  but 
you  have  a  right  to  it.  You  come  of  heroic 
blood." 

Josephine  turned  upon  him.  "What  do  you 
know  of  my  blood  ? "  she  asked,  searching  his 
face  for  the  touch  of  irony  she  suspected  him  of. 
She  was  restive  on  the  'point  of  blood  from  a  mix 
ture  of  pride  and  uneasiness :  pride  in  the  strain 
on  her  mother's  side,  and  vague  distrust  of  that 
on  her  father's,  with  which  she  found  herself  year 
by  year  less  in  sympathy. 


THE   VALLEY   TKAIL.  139 

Bodewin  hastened  to  repair  his  blunder.  "I 
beg  your  pardon.  The  story  of  your  grand 
father's  martyrdom  has  become  a  part  of  history, 
you  must  remember." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  girl,  softening  in  her  quick,  re 
sponsive  way,  "the  men  of  my  mother's  family 
thought  they  were  truest  to  their  families  when 
they  were  truest  to  their  own  best  beliefs.  But 
perhaps  you  think  my  grandfather  should  have 
yielded  everything  for  the  sake  of  security  for  his 
wife  and  children  ?  " 

"  Oh,  now  you  are  too  hard  upon  me !  At  the 
worst,  if  Harkins  were  to  carry  all  before  him 
through  my  poltroonery,  it  would  not  be  a  na 
tional  crime." 

"  Oh,  wouldn't  it  ?  Isn't  appropriating  other 
people's  goods  becoming  a  national  crime  ?  Then 
we  cannot  believe  our  own  prophets."  Josephine 
was  too  young  in  controversy  to  have  learned  to 
keep  the  excitement  of  it  out  of  her  voice.  She 
forgot  her  resolution  to  abstain  from  trying  to 
influence  Bodewin's  decision.  She  was  passion 
ately  protesting  against  it  with  her  eyes  and  burn 
ing  cheeks  as  well  as  with  her  words. 

"  Are  you  sure  it  is  the  family  claim  after  all ; 
that  is  hindering  you  ?  "   she  asked  finally.    "  Is  it 


140  JOHN   BODEWIN'S   TESTIMONY. 

not  your  own  pride  ?  Are  you  not  trying  to  cancel 
a  private  debt  by  neglecting  a  public  duty  ?  " 

Bodewiii's  answer  came  slowly.  He  had  asked 
himself  a  hundred  times  why  he  should  sacrifice 
to  the  protection  of  another  man's  property  that 
which  was  much  dearer  to  him  than  any  tangible 
possessions  of  his  own.  But  between  these  two 
the  question  had  never  been  for  one  moment  a 
question  of  property ;  each  would  have  scorned  in 
the  other  the  first  intimation  that  it  could  be. 
Bodewin  only  said,  "  What  impossible  beings  you 
must  think  us !  If  you  knew  men  better,  you 
would  not  expect  so  much  of  us." 

"  Do  you  call  it  so  much  ?  I  shall  never  expect 
less  —  never  —  of  any  man  I  believe  in  !  " 

The  ranch  was  now  in  sight,  and  they  rode  the 
rest  of  the  way  in  silence.  Not  one  of  the  family, 
except  the  cows,  was  at  home,  nor  were  Mrs. 
Craig  and  Mr.  Newbold  anywhere  to  be  seen.  A 
paper  pinned  on  the  door  bore  an  explanation  in 
Mrs.  Craig's  handwriting. 

"Ranchman's  wife  at  the  railroad  camp.  We 
are  going  on  there  to  see  her  about  the  eggs. 
Wait  for  us  or  not,  as  you  please." 

The  railroad  camp  was  a  mile  distant  up  the 
valley.  They  decided  to  wait.  Bodewin  dis- 


THE  VALLEY  TRAIL.  141 

mounted,  and  lifted  Josephine  from  her  saddle. 
She  found  a  seat  on  a  long  bench  against  the  side 
wall  of  the  larger  cabin;  while  Bodewin  looked 
about  the  premises  to  make  sure  no  one  was  at 
home.  Two  long,  low  cabins,  of  unhewn  logs, 
built  about  four  feet  apart,  were  united  by  their 
roofs.  The  covered  way  between  framed  a  view 
of  the  valley  in  the  slanting  light  of  afternoon. 
Through  the  uncurtained  windows  it  could  be 
seen  that  one  of  the  cabins  was  used  for  a  dwell 
ing  and  the  other  for  granary,  barn,  stable,  wood 
shed,  and  other  purposes.  Its  interior  was  crammed 
like  a  schoolboy's  pocket,  and  was  nearly  as  dark. 
Absolutely,  the  place  was  deserted,  except  by  the 
cows,  pensively  chewing  their  cuds  in  the  corral 
behind  the  cabin. 

Bodewin  seated  himself  on  the  bench  near  Jose 
phine.  He  took  off  his  soft  felt  hat,  and  crushed 
it  on  the  angle  of  his  knee.  As  he  leaned  forward 
on  his  elbows,  his  profile  strongly  illumined  in  the 
sun's  level  light,  certain  merits  in  his  appearance 
which  had  escaped  Josephine's  diffident  observa 
tion  now  struck  her  for  the  first  time.  His  eyes, 
that  she  had  thought  were  black,  proved  to  be  a 
dark  hazel-gray.  The  wind  loosened  a  lock  of  his 
close-cut  hair,  brushed  with  unbecoming  severity 


142  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

of  outline,  and  blew  it  across  his  forehead.  In 
stantly  he  looked  the  younger  and  the  better  for 
it.  She  noted  the  modelling  of  his  bent  head,  the 
delicacy  of  his  complexion  where  his  hat  had 
shaded  it  from  the  sun,  the  high,  clear-cut  lines  of 
his  face.  He  looked  like  some  keen-edged  instru- 
1  merit,  fit  for  precise  and  subtle  uses.  He  had  not 
found  his  true  work  as  yet,  that  was  evident ;  and 
Josephine  vaguely  wondered  whether  so  efficient 
an  instrument  carelessly  handled  might  not  be 
dangerous  to  others,  or  itself  get  dulled  or  broken. 

While  they  waited,  the  sun's  red  disk  touched 
the  mountains ;  it  dropped  out  of  sight ;  the 
mountains  darkened  against  the  after-glow  that 
spread  broadly  over  the  plain  and  flamed  upward, 
gilding  the  long  cloud-islands  that  rested  in  the 
upper  region  of  the  sky. 

"Mr.  Bodewin,"  said  Josephine,  after  one  of 
those  silences  that  often  fell  between  these  two 
unconventional  acquaintances,  "why  should  you 
feel  that  you  alone  are  responsible  for  your  sister's 
marriage  ?  She  had  a  mother  as  well  as  a  brother ; 
and  you  were  very  young." 

"  My  mother  was  scarcely  in  the  world  that 
summer.  She  lived  with  her  dead.  And  she  was 
broken  —  by  —  " 


THE  VALLEY  TRAIL.  143 

"  Forgive  me  !  "  Josephine  interrupted. 

"  You  do  not  hurt  me.  Say  anything  to  me  you 
like.  It  helps  me." 

"  I  would  like  to  say  one  thing  more,  if  I  may. 
I  am  sure  it  would  trouble  your  sister's  rest  if  she 
could  hear  you  saying  what  you  did  just  now  — 
that  she  had  a  mortgage  on  your  life  for  all. 
you  were  worth,  and  that  now  a  part  of  it  had 
fallen  into  base  hands.  Can  any  one  hold  a  mort 
gage  on  our  lives  except  the  Giver  of  life  itself? 
It  seems  to  me  you  leave  out  —  God." 

"  Would  you  have  me  throw  the  consequences 
of  my  carelessness  upon  Him  ?  " 

"  I  would  have  you  believe  that  your  sister  was 
in  His  care  as  well  as  in  yours." 

"  It  would  make  a  pagan  of  me  if  I  could  believe 
God  meant  her  life  to  be  what  we  made  it,  among 
as." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  a  pagan  already." 

"Very  likely.  And  being  a  pagan,  I  am  also  a 
coward." 

Josephine  hated  to  hear  a  man  call  himself  a 
coward,  even  for  the  sake  of-  being  contradicted. 
She  hesitated,  and  then,  smiling,  said  deliberately, 
as  if  speaking  by  rote,  — 

" '  I  would  not  hear  thine  enemy  say  so.'  " 


144  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

Bodewin  smiled  too,  rather  sadly. 

"  The  context  made  you  say  that ;  but  you  do 
not  mean  it." 

"  I  can  never  tell  how  much  I  mean  until  I  am 
tried,"  she  said,  "  but  I  think  I  mean  it." 

"  What  should  you  say  to  one  who  called  me  a 
coward  ?  " 

"  I  should  say  that  if  you  were  it  could  only  be 
as  '  conscience  doth  make  cowards  of  us  all.'  And 
to  myself  I  should  add  —  morbid  conscience." 

"  You  think  I  am  morbid  ?  " 

"  I  hope  you  are ;  for  if  your  views  of  our 
mutual  accountability  are  true,  then  life  is  not 
difficult  —  it  is  impossible." 

"  Well,  is  it  not  impossible  ?  Life,  as  it  was 
meant  to  be?" 

"I  do  not  know  how  it  was  meant  to  be.  I  be 
lieve  that  it  is,  that  it  will  be,  full  of  happiness  — 
I  do  not  mean  pleasure  —  to  those  who  hunger 
and  thirst  after  righteousness,  even  if  they  make 
terrible,  terrible  mistakes.  I  cannot  believe  in 
those  fatalities  which  make  one  man  the  destroyer 
of  another,  whether  he  wills  it  or  not.  The  inten 
tion  must  count  for  something." 

"  We  cannot  live  by  our  intentions,"  said  Bode 
win.  "  I  think  I  see  your  father  and  Mrs.  Craig 


THE  VALLEY  TRAIL.  145 

coming.  They  are  a  long  way  off ;  do  you  see  ? 
Where  the  trail  cuts  in  towards  Bird's  Eye 
Canon." 

•"  I  wish  they  had  come  before  I  began  to  talk 
of  things  that  are  beyond  me,"  sighed  Josephine. 

"  There  is  nothing  beyond  you  —  nothing  worth 
mentioning." 

Whenever  Bode  win  said  anything  to  Josephine 
that  she  might  have  resented  as  flattering  in  its 
tendency,  he  did  it  with  a  dismal  reluctance  which 
made  it  a  thing  to  pity  him  for. 

He  was  getting  restive  under  a  deepening  sense 
of  her  truth  and  sweetness.  He  would  have  been 
glad  to  find  a  flaw  in  her  —  another  flaw ;  for 
since  he  had  made  her  atone  to  the  uttermost  for 
that  slip  with  which  their  acquaintance  had  begun, 
she  had  been  steadily  triumphing  in  his  thoughts. 

He  had  long  ceased  to  be  even  amused  at  their 
relations  to  each  other  with  reference  to  the  trial 
—  Mr.  Newbold's  daughter  helping  her  father  to 
his  most  important  witness.  He  would  have  felt 
like  choking  any  man  who  dared  to  hint  at  the 
convenience  of  such  an  arrangement  for  Mr.  New- 
bold.  He  adored  her  unconscious  sincerity  that 
ignored  the  world  and  feared  no  misconception ;  and 
he  felt  the  tribute  to  his  own  manhood  it  so  simply 


146  JOHN  BODEWTN'S  TESTIMONY. 

yet  subtly  conveyed.  He  was  able  to  speak  of 
her  to  Hillbury  that  evening  with  calmness,  how 
ever,  and  to  agree  with  his  friend  in  his  favorite 
theory,  that  a  woman  must  have  a  certain  amount 
of  self-consciousness  to  escape  being  crude.  Hill- 
bury  was  apt  to  take  a  cool,  disparaging  tone  in 
speaking  of  the  average  pretty  woman,  but  Bode- 
win  could  not  believe  in  Hillbury's  entire  indiffer 
ence  to  a  girl  he  himself  found  so  charming. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

AN   ANONYMOUS   LETTER. 

BODEWIN  had  left  his  horse  at  the  stable,  and 
had  overtaken  Hillbury  as  the  latter  was  strolling 
along  the  ditch-walk,  reading  his  letters  on  his 
way  back  to  camp.  Hillbury  put  up  the  letters 
as  Bodewin  fell  into  step  beside  him. 

."I  tried  to  find  you  this  afternoon,  Bodewin. 
Where  are  your  rooms  now  ?  " 

"Rooms!  My  room  is  in  the  Parker  building, 
second  story,  front,  if  you  want  to  see  me  on 
business." 

"  You  have  more  than  one  room  there." 

"  Well,  if  you  count  a  man's  bedroom." 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  you've  won  your  cigars." 

"What  cigars?" 

"Have  you  forgotten  our  bet  about  Craig's 
cabin?" 

"Craig's  cabin?" 

"  The  cabin  in  the  Lake  woods ;  the  girl-and-pup 
story." 

147 


148  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

Bodewin's  face  changed  slightly  as  he  replied, 
"  Yes,  I  remember." 

The  mention  of  the  Lake  woods  called  up  other 
impressions  more  vivid  than  those  connected  with 
Craig's  adventure. 

"  You  were  right  about  Craig ;  there  is  no  cabin 
there." 

"What  did  I  say  about  Craig?" 

"You  said  the  little  boy  lied;  and  apparently 
he  did." 

After  a  pause  Bodewin  said,  "  Craig  may  have 
lied  on  occasion,  but  he  is  not  a  liar.  If  I  ever 
said  that  he  was,  or  implied  it,  I  lied  myself." 

"  Well,  the  cabin  cannot  be  found.  I'll  send 
the  cigars  around  to-morrow." 

"  I  won't  take  them ;  do  you  understand  ?  I 
don't  want  to  smoke  a  whole  box  of  cigars  flavored 
with  a  stupid  fiction  of  Craig's.  I'd  rather  borrow 
them  of  you  one  at  a  time,"  he  added,  as  Hillbury 
looked  grave,  "  and  no  thanks  to  Craig." 

"You  still  insist  there  is  no  cabin?"  Hillbury 
persisted. 

"Hang  the  cabin!" 

His  words,  few  as  they  had  been,  convinced 
Hillbury  that  Bodewin  was  himself  surprised  that 
the  cabin  could  not  be  found.  His  pretended  in- 


AN   ANONYMOUS   LETTER.  149 

credulity,  he  believed,  must  have  been  pure  reck 
lessness,  founded  on  his  dislike  to  everything 
Craig  did,  or  the  joking  of  a  tired  and  hungry 
man ;  or  else,  for  some  reason  impossible  to  guess, 
Bodewin  had  not  been  perfectly  frank.  The  im 
pression  was  so  strong  that  Hillbury  resolved  to 
make  one  more  search  for  evidence  of  the  truth  of 
Craig's  story. 

The  outer  door  of  Bodewin's  office  in  the  Parker 
building  had  a  slit  in  it,  and  a  box  nailed  on  the 
inner  panel  for  the  convenience  of  callers  in  his 
absence.  When  he  returned  to  his  lodgings  that 
evening,  Bodewin,  after  striking  a  light,  examined 
this  box.  It  contained  but  one  letter,  from  a  most 
unattractive  correspondent,  to  judge  by  the  super 
scription.  The  envelope  bore  no  postmark ;  the 
letter  was  undated.  It  read  as  follows :  — 

"Do  not  go  on  the  witness  stand  unprotected.  Colonel  Har- 
kins  swears  that  if  you  testify  against  him  you  shall  not  leave 
the  court-room  alive.  A  FEIEND." 

Bodewin  sent  a  letter  to  Craig  that  night,  short 
but  carefully  worded. 

His  testimony,  he  wrote,  in  the  case  between 
the  Eagle  Bird  and  Uinta  mines  was  at  the  service 
of  the  Eagle  Bird.  He  would  prefer  to  give  it  in 
response  to  a  subpoena  in  due  form.  He  would 


150  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

take  his  expenses  and  the  usual  witness-fee,  noth 
ing  more,  and  the  question  of  money  need  not  be 
referred  to  again  in  regard  to  this  case ;  and  he 
was  Mr.  Craig's  respectfully.  This  letter  Mr. 
Craig  handed  to  Mr.  Newbold  the  next  day  as 
they  sat  together  on  the  Eagle  Bird  piazza,  wait 
ing  to  see  the  superintendent  on  a  small  matter 
connected  with  the  lawsuit,  —  a  matter  which 
made  it  necessary  for  Sammis  to  look  up  some  old 
maps  of  the  mine.  Josephine  had  gone  into  the 
house  to  see  Mrs.  Sammis's  baby.  She  had  found 
him  in  the  dining-room,  seated  in  his  high-chair 
at  a  table  where  his  mother  was  engaged  in  cut 
ting  out  the  overskirt  of  a  new  grenadine  dress. 
Josephine  was  consulted  as  to  the  proper  length  to 
allow  for  draping,  and  as  baby  gave  more  of  his 
assistance  than  was  desirable,  making  dashes  at 
the  paper  patterns,  and  side  pulls  at  the  stuff 
spread  smoothly  on  the  table,  Josephine  seized 
him  out  of  his  chair  and  bore  him  off  into  the 
front  room,  where  she  made  him  happy  in  a  way 
he  knew  well.  She  placed  him  on  her  knee,  fac 
ing  her,  at  arm's  length,  and,  with  her  smiling 
eyes  fixed  on  his  solemn  ones,  began  softly  jogging 
him  up  and  down  to  the  recitative,  "  This  is  the 
way  the  lady  rides,"  etc.  As  the  pace  grew 


AN  ANONYMOUS   LETTER.  151 

better,  his  fat  shoulders  began  to  shake  and  the 
dimples  to  show  round  the  deep-sunk  corners  of 
his  mouth ;  but  when  it  came  to  "  Hobble-de-gee 
the  farmer  goes!"  his  content  knew  no  bounds. 
Now  they  began  once  more  with  "  This  is  the  way 
the  lady  rides,  nimble  namble,  nimble  namble," 
and  the  gait  was  so  easy  and  the  song  so  low  to 
match  it,  that  Josephine  could  hear  her  father's 
voice  speaking  to  Mr.  Craig  in  the  porch  outside. 
The  shutters  were  drawn  together,  but  the  win 
dows  were  open. 

"  Well,  what  did  I  tell  you  ?  It  has  come  out 
just  as  I  said  it  would !  " 

"  How  was  that,  Mr.  Newbold  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  remember  what  I  said  to  you  down 
there  in  your  office?  " 

"About  Bodewin?  You  said,  if  I'm  not  mis 
taken,  that  his  case  called  for  a  woman's  influ 
ence  ;  wasn't  that  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  I  meant  was  the  social  thing,  you 
know.  Of  course,  you  can't  have  society  without 
women.  He  has  seen  a  good  deal  of  us  lately, 
and  naturally  he  takes  more  interest  in  the  case. 
He's  reconsidered  the  matter  from  a  more  human 
point  of  view." 

"  He  has  not  seen  much  of  me  lately.     He  has 


152  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

seen  a  good  deal  of  my  wife  and  of  your  daughter. 
Is  that  the  point  of  view  you  call  human  ?  " 

"  You  lawyers  are  the  worst  fellows  to  turn  a 
man's  words  wrong  side  out.  You  know  very 
well  what  I  mean.  Bodewin  has  come  round  — 
most  unexpectedly  to  you,  but  not  to  me.  I  knew 
he  was  coming.  The  rides  and  the  talks  and  the 
little  dinners  have  done  the  business,  and  now 
you  can  come  in  with  the  majesty  of  the  law  and 
claim  the  credit  of  it." 

"  To  whom  is  the  credit  due,  do  you  think  — 
your  daughter  or  my  wife  ?  " 

"  Oh,  come,  Craig !  I'm  not  going  to  quarrel 
with  you  —  not  until  after  the  trial." 

"There  will  not  be  any  trial  with  me  for  your 
counsel,  Mr.  Newbold,  unless  you  drop  that  little 
theory  of  yours,  pretty  sudden  too !  You  can 
give  all  the  credit  you  like  to  your  daughter,  —  I 
beg  her  pardon,  and  you  ought  to  too,  —  but  I 
want  you  to  understand,  before  we  go  any  further, 
that  my  wife  doesn't  help  me  to  win  my  cases." 

"Good  Lord,  man!  one  would  suppose  — " 
Josephine  sprang  up,  hardly  conscious  of  the 
heavy  child  in  her  arms,  and  carried  him  back  to 
the  dining-room,  where  Mrs.  Sammis  was  folding 
up  the  breadths  of  her  overskirt. 


AN    ANONYMOUS   LETTER.  153 

"I  do  believe  there  is  enough  left  for  a 
shoulder-cape,"  she  said,  without  looking  up,  as 
Josephine  entered.  "Don't  you  like  those  little 
shirred  capes  ?  " 

"  On  some  people  —  yes,"  Josephine  replied, 
absently. 

"If  there  wasn't  enough  to  shir,  I  might  put 
some  fringe  around  it,  and  trim  it  with  passymen- 
tery.  —  Ain't  you  been  tiring  yourself  out  with 
him  ?  You  look  real  warm !  "  She  held  out  her 
hands  for  the  child. 

"  He  doesn't  tire  me  —  does  he,  monkins  ?  " 
Josephine  leaned  her  head  against  the  baby's 
clean  white  pinafore,  put  on  over  yesterday's 
frock  with  especial  reference  to  her  visit.  He 
clasped  the  bent,  dark  head  in  his  chubby  arms, 
patted  it  vigorously,  and  then  pushed  himself 
away  from  her  that  he  might  peep  down  into  her 
face.  Mrs.  Sammis  looked  on  with  flattered  re 
gard. 

"  You've  got  a  real  way  with  babies !  "  she  said. 
"  For  an  only  child  yourself  it's  wonderful.  I 
guess  you're  one  of  the  born  mothers.  You  must 
look  out  when  it  comes  to  marrying.  When  you 
see  a  girl  with  blood  in  her  for  two,  she's  sure  to 
pick  out  a  man  that  hasn't  half  enough  for  one, 


154  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

and  nurse  him  the  rest  of  her  life,  and  be  as  proud 
of  him,  like  as  not,  as  if  he  was  her  first-born,  and 
think  he's  got  a  terrible  intellect." 

Josephine,  in  her  visits  to  the  mine,  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  using  the  Sammis  baby  as  an  inno 
cent  sort  of  buffer  to  ward  off  the  mother's  atten 
tions.  That  day  she  kept  the  child  in  her  arms, 
petting  him  and  recklessly  encouraging  his  small 
tyrannies,  until  the  horses  were  brought  round 
and  her  father  called  to  her  from  the  piazza  that 
it  was  time  to  go. 

Nothing  in  all  her  life  had  ever  hurt  her  like 
those  words  of  his  she  had  overheard.  Josephine 
had  ever  been  too  ready  to  flame  out  on  slight 
provocation,  and  dispute  the  paternal  judgment 
and  sometimes  the  paternal  authority  on  trifling 
points,  but  this  issue  involved  differences  too  vital 
even  for  discussion.  She  could  not  open  the  sub 
ject  to  her  father  without  showing  him  her  scorn 
for  his  point  of  view.  All  the  satisfaction  she 
might  have  had  in  Bodewin's  conversion  was 
blighted.  Reviewing  his  several  conversations 
with  her  as  she  was  able  to  recall  them,  she  fan 
cied  she  could  read  her  own  humiliation  in  his 
cold  surprise,  his  mocking  appeal,  his  abrupt  and 
intimate  demand.  The  first  slip  had  been  hers, 


AN  ANONYMOUS   LETTER.  155 

but  she  was  now  ready  to  believe  her  father  had 
done  his  best  to  put  her  in  the  way  of  making  it. 
He  who  should  have  saved  her  from  her  faults 
had  been  in  league  with  them  against  her  —  was 
openly  exulting  in  their  consequences,  with  an 
indecency  of  suggestion  which  had  disgusted 
even  Mr.  Craig.  The  object  of  her  soliloquy 
was  meanwhile  comfortably  riding  behind  her, 
by  the  side  of  Mr.  Craig,  talking  of  future  im 
provements  at  the  mine,  to  be  begun  as  soon  as 
the  trial  was  over.  For  now  that  Bodewin  had 
been  won,  Mr.  Newbold,  and  his  lawyer  no  less, 
regarded  the  case  as  virtually  decided  in  their 
favor. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

DEAD   OR  MISSING. 

ME.  NEWBOLD  wondered  a  little  that  Jose 
phine's  interest  in  the  trial  should  have  so  sud 
denly  cooled.  But  no  doubt  she  was  tired  of  the 
subject;  it  had  been  presented  to  her  somewhat 
monotonously  of  late.  She  declined  to  go  down 
with  him  to  Denver  on  the  week  of  the  trial,  pre 
ferring  to  stay  at  the  mine  with  Mrs.  Sammis.  It 
would  not  be  an  exciting  visit,  but  Josephine 
would  have  chosen  to  go  back  alone  to  Kansas 
City  rather  than  make  one  of  the  Eagle  Bird 
party  on  this  conspicuous  occasion.  Mr.  Newbold 
had  hired  a  light  mountain-wagon  and  a  team  of 
horses  to  carry  his  constituents  over  the  range  to 
the  end  of  the  track  in  the  safest  and  speediest 
manner.  He  had  also  ordered  the  best  breakfast 
the  Wiltsie  House  could  furnish,  to  be  served  at 
the  mine,  where  the  party  were  to  meet  on  the 
morning  of  the  journey. 

156 


DEAD   OR   MISSING.  157 

Bodewin  had  been  as  good  as  his  word  when  he 
told  Josephine  that  he  would  take  no  advantage 
of  her  reluctant  consideration  of  his  difficulty. 
She  had  not  seconded  her  father's  numerous  invi 
tations  to  him,  and  had  met  him  only  through 
their  mutual  acquaintances,  Mrs.  Craig  and  Hill- 
bury.  One  of  Mrs.  Craig's  children  had  been  ill, 
and  the  outdoor  gayeties  of  her  planning  had 
ceased  for  a  week  before  the  date  of  the  trial. 
During  this  time  Josephine  had  not  seen  Bode- 
win.  She  would  gladly  have  escaped  the  break 
fast,  but  her  father  had  made  a  point  of  her  pre 
siding.  However,  to  her  great  relief,  Bodewin 
was  not  among  the  guests.  At  the  last  moment  he 
had  resigned  his  seat  in  the  wagon  and  announced 
that  he  would  make  the  pass  on  horseback. 

"We  shall  see  you  to-morrow  at  breakfast?" 
Mr.  Newbold  had  asked,  and  Bodewin  had 
begged  to  be  excused,  as  he  was  not  an  early 
breakfaster  and  would  not  need  to  start  as  soon 
as  the  team,  by  an  hour  at  least.  He  came  loiter 
ing  up  the  trail  a  few  minutes  after  the  Eagle 
Bird  party  had  set  off.  He  had  left  his  water 
proof  coat  in  Sammis's  office  the  last  time  he  had 
gone  through  the  mine,  he  said,  and  had  stopped 
for  it  on  his  way. 


158  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

Josephine  was  sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  high 
porch  as  he  rode  up.  He  had  seen  her,  and  it 
was  too  late  for  her  to  escape  into  the  house. 
She  smiled  collectedly  enough  and  said  good- 
morning,  while  Mrs.  Sammis  came  from  the  end 
of  the  porch,  holding  a  leaky  watering-pot  at 
arm's  length,  to  ask  if  he  would  not  change  his 
mind  and  have  some  breakfast.  He  had  had  a 
cup  of  coffee  before  leaving  the  camp,  he  thanked 
her,  but  would  she  kindly  send  some  one  for  that 
coat?  The  office  was  locked  and  'Sammis  had 
taken  the  key,  but  Mrs.  Sammis  thought  she 
knew  where  there  was  another  key  that  would  fit. 
She  went  into  the  house  to  find  it,  and  Bodewin 
seated  himself  on  the  steps  below  Josephine. 
His  first  look  at  her,  before  a  word  had  been 
spoken,  assured  Josephine  that  she  was  safe  at 
least  in  his  regard.  But  that  did  not  take  away 
her  trouble  by  any  means.  It  might  have  been 
better  that  he  should  despise  her.  No  one  could 
have  guessed  from  Josephine's  appearance  that 
she  was  unhappy,  still  less  humiliated,  about  any 
thing.  Bodewin  was  looking  at  her  timidly ;  he 
had  never  seen  her  before  in  a  white  dress.  It 
was  only  a  white  flannel,  made  in  the  simplest 
way,  but  a  garment  of  white  samite  could  not 


DEAD   OK   MISSING.  159 

have  been  more  mystic  and  wonderful  to  Bode- 
wiii's  inexperienced  eyes.  It  defined  her  fair 
arms  and  shoulders  and  clung  in  some  mysterious 
way  about  her  hips,  sweeping  downward  in  long 
soft  folds  over  the  pleatirigs  that  huddled  about 
her  feet.  Bodewin  could  not  venture  to  more 
than  glance  at  her  as  she  sat  on  the  steps  above 
him.  It  was  scarcely  possible  to  avoid  some  refer 
ence  to  the  object  of  his  journey. 

"  Are  you  surprised  at  my  going,  after  all  I  said 
to  you  that  last  time  ?  "  he  asked. 

'•  No ;  I  knew  then,  in  spite  of  what  you  said, 
that  you  would  go." 

"  Thank  you  for  your  faith  in  me.  I  ought  to 
be  uncommonly  happy,  I  suppose.  True  happi 
ness  consists  in  doing  what  is  disagreeable, 
doesn't  it?" 

Now  that  Bodewin  had  begun  to  talk  in  this 
safe,  artificial  strain,  Josephine's  courage  returned. 

"Perhaps  so,"  she  said,  "if  you  do  it  for  the 
sake  of  something  better  than  happiness." 

"You  are  the  most  exacting  young  moralist! 
Isn't  it  enough  that  you  have  got  me  on  the 
right  track  at  last,  without  asking  for  my  pass 
port?" 

Josephine's  face  turned  scarlet. 


160  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"  I  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  track  that 
you  are  on." 

"  Am  I  not  your  witness  ?  " 

"  You  know  that  you  are  not.  Remember,  the 
condition  of  my  listening  to  you  was  that  you 
should  not  make  it  personal." 

"You  repudiate  me  altogether  now  that  I  am 
doing  what  you  wished  me  to  do.  You  don't  deny 
that  you  do  wish  it? " 

"If  it  is  merely  a  question  of  what  I  or  any 
one  else  wishes  you  to  do,  you  had  better  not 
do  it." 

Poor  Josephine  was  insisting  all  the  more  stren 
uously  on  the  dignity  of  her  position,  now  that 
she  herself  had  lost  all  faith  in  it ;  and  Bodewin 
was  irritated  by  this  display  of  rectitude,  when  he 
was  longing  for  something  less  comfortless  to  a 
man  starting  on  a  journey  attended  by  risks  known 
to  no  one  but  himself. 

"Such  very  abstract  views   of  duty  as   yours 

\  I 

U  strike    me   as   a  little  inhuman,"  he   said,  —  "to 
adore  a  man's  duty  and  yet  spurn  him  for  doing 
'it." 

"I  do  not  spurn  you;  neither  do  I  intend  to 
applaud  you." 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to ;  I  ask  only  a  kind  word  of 


DEAD   OR   MISSING.  161 

good-bye,  and  some  little  recognition  of  the  fact 
that  I  am  going  on  your  errand.  That  is  very 
weak  of  me,  perhaps." 

"  But  you  are  not  going  on  my  errand.  What 
right  have  I  to  send  you  on  my  errands,  or  you 
to  go?" 

"  I  might  go  on  your  errand  without  your  send 
ing  me." 

Josephine  shook  her  head.  "  How  can  you  play 
with  a  serious  decision  like  this,  even  for  the  sake 
of  teasing  ?  " 

"  Why  should  it  tease  you  ?  I  should  be  glad 
to  relieve  you  from  that  horror  you  seem  to  have 
of  any  complicity  in  my  acts ;  but  I  hardly  think 
I  should  be  riding  over  the  range  to-day  if  you 
had  not  challenged  my  right  to  do  as  I  pleased." 

Since  there  was  no  denying  that  his  motives 
were  mixed,  Bode  win  was  resolved  to  get  what 
comfort  he  could  out  of  the  mixture.  He  wished 
Josephine  to  feel  that  this  act  of  his  was  in  some 
sort  a  bond  between  them,  and  she  resisted  the 
acknowledgment  he  was  forcing  upon  her,  with 
maidenly  fierceness. 

She  stood  up,  facing  him,  obliging  him  to  rise, 
though  he  was  in  no  hurry  to  go.  He  leaned 
heavily  on  the  balustrade,  avoiding  her  eyes. 


162  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"  Don't  go,"  she  said,  more  gently  ;  "  don't  give 
your  testimony  from  any  motive  lower  than  the 
one  which  made  you  withhold  it." 

"Be  satisfied,"  he  said;   "I  am  doing  what  is 
right.     I  don't  ask  myself  why  I  am  doing  it,"  • 
he  lifted  his  heavy-lidded,  passionate  eyes  to  her 
face,  —  "and  you  must  not  ask  me,  because  I  might 
tell  you  the  truth." 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  silently  offered  his 
hand.  Josephine  let  him  hold  hers  a  moment, 
and  they  parted  without  looking  at  each  other 
again.  As  Bodewin  was  unhitching  his  horse  Mrs. 
Sammis  appeared. 

"You're  not  going  without  your  coat,  Mr.  Bode 
win  ?  "  She  came  down  the  steps  with  it,  apolo 
gizing  for  having  kept  him  waiting  so  long.  "  I 
hope  you  won't  have  to  ride  too  fast  to  make  up 
the  time." 

Bodewin  assured  her  he  had  plenty  of  time. 
He  rolled  up  the  coat  into  a  snug  bundle  and 
tied  it  securely  with  the  leathern  thongs  attached 
to  the  back  of  his  saddle,  swung  himself  on  his 
horse,  and,  lifting  his  hat  to  Mrs.  Sammis,  rode 
away. 

Twilight  drew  the  curtains  of  sunset  in  the 
valley.  Night  came  on,  and  the  Eagle  Bird 


DEAD   OR   MISSING.  163 

folded  its  murky  wings  in  such  rest  as  its  cease 
less  subterranean  life  permitted.  Josephine  sat 
on  the  porch  steps.  She  had  been  alone  nearly 
all  day,  for,  though  nominally  the  guest  of  the 
superintendent's  wife,  she  saw  very  little  of  her 
hostess.  The  superintendent  had  married,  as  in 
small,  isolated  communities,  the  average  man  mar 
ries,  the  woman  he  had  seen  most  frequently.  In 
Sammis's  case  she  had  happened  to  be  a  garrulous 
soul  in  an  under-vitalized  body.  Mrs.  Sammis 
had  stamped  her  feebleness  with  the  force  of  a 
fatality  on  her  husband's  life,  his  house,  and  his 
children,  suffering  herself  more  than  Sammis,  per 
haps,  from  this  repetition  of  her  own  negative 
personality.  There  was  a  dreary  inefficiency 
about  the  conduct  of  affairs  in  the  household  she 
now  found  herself  part  of,  that  had  already  begun 
to  weigh  upon  Josephine  like  a  trouble  of  her 
own. 

At  the  dump  station  below  the  hill  a  light  had 
shone  since  twilight.  At  intervals  she  heard  the 
hollow  rolling  of  a  car  along  the  tramway.  As 
the  sound  ceased,  a  bolt  rattled,  and  the  torrent 
of  earth  and  stones  crashed  over  the  dump.  The 
car  rolled  back  into  the  tunnel,  and  in  the  suc 
ceeding  silence  the  strokes  of  the  engine  from  the 


164  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

shaft-house  counted  the  hours  to  the  change  of 
shifts.  Presently  a  new  sound  caught  Josephine's 
attention  —  the  light,  sharp  click  of  a  horse's 
hoofs  coming  rapidly  up  the  hill.  She  lost  it  for 
an  instant,  then  she  heard  it  again,  nearing  faster 
and  now  close  at  hand.  By  the  main  group  of 
buildings  it  stopped,  and  voices  of  men  were  heard 
talking. 

Mrs.  Sammis  came  out  on  the  porch,  carrying 
the  baby,  her  apron  turned  up  over  its  bare  head. 
She  walked  past  Josephine  to  the  end  of  the 
porch,  and  called  into  the  darkness :  — 

"  Whose  horse  is  that  ?  " 

There  was  no  audible  reply,  and  she  repeated 
the  question.  "  Whose  horse  is  that  ?  " 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  Josephine  asked. 
She  too  went  to  the  end  of  the  porch,  and  looked 
and  listened  with  Mrs.  Sammis  in  the  contagion 
of  vague  alarm. 

"  I  thought  that  horse  coming  up  just  now  was 
the  bald-faced  one  Mr.  Bodewin  rode,"  Mrs.  Sam- 
mis  said. 

"  Has  Mr.  Bodewin  come  lack  f  " 

"It  wasn't  Bodewin  rode  him  in.  I  saw 
him  plain  enough  coming  up  the  hill.  It 
was  that  man  from  Lounsberry  stables.  I  can't 


DEAD   OK   MISSING.  165 

ever  think  of  his  name.  He  brings  your  father's 
horses." 

"  But  where  is  Mr.  Bodewin  ?  " 

"  That's  what  I'd  like  to  know,  if  I  could  get 
anything  out  of  them  men  ! " 

"  Let  me  take  the  baby,  Mrs.  Sammis." 

The  sleepy  child  began  to  scream  when  his 
mother  transferred  him  to  Josephine's  arms.  She 
carried  him  into  the  house,  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  close  entry  with  him,  mechanically  hush 
ing  his  cries,  while  Mrs.  Sammis  ran  out  to  the 
stable  to  make  inquiries. 

"Oh,  baby,  baby,  do  hush!  "  Josephine  almost 
sobbed  herself,  trying  to  listen. 

In  a  few  moments  Mrs.  Sammis  returned.  The 
baby  was  still  screaming;  and  with  a  mother's 
sententious  sympathy  she  took  her  offspring  into 
her  own  arms  and  carried  him  into  her  bedroom, 
where  Josephine  heard  her  singing  her  habitual 

lullaby  — 

"  Safe  in  the  arms  of  Jesus, 

Safe  on  His  gentle  breast." 

The  measured  creak  of  a  rocking-chair  contin 
ued  for  some  time  after  the  singing  had  ceased. 
Then  Mrs.  Sammis  came  out  of  the  room,  carrying 
a  smoky  kerosene  lamp  in  her  hand.  She  placed 
it  in  the  centre  of  a  table  with  a  red  printed  cotton 


166  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

cover  on  it,  re-arranged  the  books  in  little  set  piles 
around  the  lamp,  and  finally  sat  down  by  Jose 
phine  at  the  window,  sighing  audibly  and  stroking 
back  her  hair  with  her  thin,  moist,  bleached-look- 
ing  hands. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  they  don't  know  what's  gone 
of  him  any  more'n  we  do  !  That  bay  horse  of  his 
come  in  alone  about  seven  o'clock,  and  walked 
himself  into  the  stable  where  he's  kep',  and  that's 
^11  they  know.  They  waited  till  the  stage  got  in ; 
but  there  wasn't  any  message  from  our  folks. 
They  passed  our  team  the  other  side  of  the  sum 
mit  ;  but  they  hadn't  seen  any  sign  of  him  either 
side.  He  hadn't  stopped  at  English  George's,  but 
just  at  the  foot  of  the  pass, — you  rec'lect,  when 
you  come  in,  that  little  gulch  where  the  water 
was,  and  right  smart  of  grass?  The  woman  says 
she  was  just  takin'  some  blackberry  pies  out  of  the 
oven,  —  one  of  them  outdoor  ovens,  you've  seen 
'em,  —  and  he  rode  up  and  bought  one  of  the  pies, 
and  et  it  settin'  on  his  horse,  and  took  a  big  drink 
of  milk,  and  gave  her  a  dollar.  'Twasn't  more'n 
three  bits'  worth.  They  sent  up  from  the  stable 
to  know  if  he  changed  his  horse  here  this  morning 
before  he  started.  You  saw  him  tie  that  coat  on 
to  his  saddle,  didn't  you  ?  " 


DEAD   OB   MISSING.  167 

"  Yes,"  said  Josephine. 

"  Well,  they  say  the  saddle  came  home  bare." 

"Bare?" 

"  There  wasn't  any  coat  or  nothing  tied  fast  to 
it." 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?  " 

"  It  means  it  wasn't  an  accident."  Mrs.  Sammis 
lowered  her  voice  to  give  greater  effect  to  her  next 
words.  "  They  think,  down  to  the  camp,  it's  some 
of  the  Uinta's  work.  The  horse  had  been  hit  by 
a  bullet,  and  they  say  the  mark  of  it  showed  it 
come  from  behind.  There  is  no  tellin',"  she  con 
tinued,  after  a  pause,  which  brought  no  comment 
from  Josephine.  "  Some  thinks  he's  just  been 
pi  ay  in'  into  their  hands  all  along.  He  give  'em  a 
first-rate  chance,  goin'  off  alone  like  that.  Sam- 
mis  has  'lowed  all  along  that  he  was  in  with  them." 

Josephine  rose,  and  went  out  on  the  porch. 
The  air  was  of  an  unusual  softness.  The  stars 
between  the  pine  trunks  seemed  few  and  very  far 
away.  She  watched  the  light  of  a  lantern  swing 
ing  from  the  hand  of  the  night  foreman,  who  was 
crossing  the  trodden  space  before  the  shaft-house, 
and  listened  to  the  sluff,  sluff,  of  his  rubber  boots, 
as  their  loose  tops  rubbed  together  at  every  step. 
The  light  at  the  dump  station  was  eclipsed,  and 


168  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

now  again  came  the  rattling  of  the  bolt  and  the 
plunging  of  the  load  over  the  dump.  It  fell  into 
the  echoless  silence  of  the  wood  like  a  stone  in  a 
deep  well.  So  had  the  news  of  the  night  fallen 
into  Josephine's  heart.  She  heard  Mrs.  Sammis's 
step  in  the  hall,  and  turned  to  say :  - 

"  Will  you  tell  me  as  soon  as  you  know  any 
thing  more,  —  whatever  it  is  ?    I  want  to  know  it." 
"  Why,  of  course  ;  why  shouldn't  you  know  it  ?" 
Why,   indeed,    Josephine    repeated   to   herself, 
should  she  be  spared  the  knowledge  of  Bodewin's 
fate?     What  was  it  to   her  but   one   more  man 
added  to  the  list  of  the  camp's  missing,  or  dead, 
or  dishonored? 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

ON  THE  ROAD   TO   THE  PASS. 

IT  was  nearly  noon  when  Bodewin  reached  the 
foot  of  the  pass.  He  had  left  the  ticklish  places 
on  his  road  behind  him  —  the  deep  woods,  the  wet 
stony  hollows,  the  winding  gulches  with  high 
rocky  walls  that  shut  out  the  sun.  The  secluded 
trail  he  had  taken  now  met  the  stage  road,  where 
passengers  were  frequent.  The  chances  for  an 
adventure  on  that  exposed  highway  were  hardly 
worth  considering.  Bodewin  kept  a  quietly 
watchful  eye  on  each  turn  of  the  road  or  project 
ing  angle  of  rock,  as  a  matter  of  habit,  rather 
than  of  special  precaution. 

As  he  slowly  climbed  the  last  half  mile  to  the 
summit,  he  heard  some  one  shouting,  and,  looking 
back,  saw  a  man  on  a  hard-ridden  horse  motioning 
to  him  from  a  distance.  He  waited  for  the 
stranger  to  overtake  him. 

"If  your  name  is  Bodewin,  there's  a  man  back 
here  in  the  timber  has  got  some  papers  for  you." 

169 


170  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

Bodewin  looked  hard  at  his  fellow-traveller. 
He  was  a  man  of  about  fifty,  with  a  tall,  stooping 
figure,  a  foxy  beard  that  was  turning  gray,  and  a 
scar  on  the  side  of  his  thin  nose  that  made  his 
eyes  seem  closer  together. 

"  All  right,  boss  !  "  he  said.  "  Take  a  good  look 
at  me.  It  sounds  like  a  lie,  but  it  ain't." 

"  Where  does  your  man  say  he's  from  ?  "  Bode 
win  asked. 

"He  came  out  from  camp,  just  behind  you. 
Says  he  is  one  of  the  men  from  Lotmsberry's  sta 
bles.  Some  papers  belongin'  to  a  party  named 
Newbold  got  left  at  the  Eagle  Bird  mine.  The 
women  folks  found  'em  just  after  you'd  gone. 
The  young  lady  there,  Newbold's  daughter,  knew 
they'd  be  wanted  on  the  trial  that's  coming  off  to 
morrow,  and  she  chartered  him  to  overtake  you 
with  'em.  He  promised  her  he  wouldn't  give  'em 
into  no  hands  only  yourn." 

"  Well,"  said  Bodewin,  "  what  is  he  doing  in  the 
timber?" 

"Horse  fell  on  him.  He's  all  broke  up.  I 
come  along  just  after  he  was  hurt,  and  he  got 
me  to  overtake  you  and  git  you  to  come  back 
for  the  papers.  I  told  him  you  wouldn't  come, 
and  to  give  me  the  papers.  I  might  be  all 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO   THE   PASS.  171 

right,  he  said,  but  he  couldn't  let  'em  out  of  his 
hands." 

The  ingenuousness  of  this  speech  was  not  borne 
out  by  the  speaker's  countenance,  but  various 
considerations  were  working  on  Bodewin  during 
the  few  seconds  it  took  him  to  choose  between  the 
risks  of  believing  a  false  story  and  doubting  a  true 
one. 

"Are  you  goin'  back?"  the  man  inquired. 
"  Pm  goin'.  I  want  to  git  him  into  shape,  so's  he 
can  git  back  to  camp." 

"  Hold  on  a  minute.     Where  did  you  say  this 

man  was?" 

• 

"  Back  here  half  a  mile  in  the  timber." 
"  All  right,"  Bodewin  said.     "  Go  on.     I'm  with 
you." 

The  stranger  did  not  look  back  or  wait  for 
Bodewin,  but  turned  his  horse's  head  down  the 
hill  again.  He  turned  off  from  the  stage  road 
into  the  trail  by  which  Bodewin  had  come.  They 
were  soon  among  the  trees  —  the  stunted  pines 
and  spruces,  straggling  ahead  of  the  close  columns 
of  the  main  forest.  Here  Bodewin  met  with  evi 
dence  confirmatory  of  his  friend's  story/  A  gray 
horse  could  plainly  be  seen  a  short  distance  ahead 
of  them,  foraging  for  a  bite  by  the  wayside,  while 


172  JOHN   BODE  WIN'S   TESTIMONY. 

near  him  in  the  sparse  shade  lay  a  man  at  full 
length  on  the  ground.  Bode  win  thought  he 
could  remember  having  seen  such  a  light-gray 
horse  with  white  mane  and  tail  at  Lounsberry's 
stables.  He  was  sure  he  remembered  the  man's 
face,  when  he  came  near  enough  to  see  it.  He 
|;was  that  dark,  dull-eyed  youth,  partner  of  the 
Irishman  whom  Bodewin  had  conversed  with  at 
/his  claim  on  the  mountain.  Bodewin  was  not 
surprised  to  find  the  prospector,  two  weeks  later, 
a  stableman.  It  was  the  way  of  the  camp. 

"You  don't  remember  me,  Mr.  Bodewin,"  the 
young  fellow  said,  lifting  his  sullen  black  eyes  to 
Bodewin's  face.  "  But  I  know  you."  He  opened 
his  coat  and  took  hold  of  some  papers  that  showed, 
projecting  from  an  inside  pocket. 

"  Here's  the  papers  she  told  me  to  give  you ;  I 
can't  raise  up."  His  face  was  darkly  flushed,  as 
with  pain. 

"  You  don't  need  to  get  off,  Mr.  Bodewin,"  the 
other  man  said.  "  I  can  hand  'em  to  you." 

uNo,  you  can't,"  the  messenger  objected.  "I 
promised  her  I'd  give  'em  into  his  hands  or  fetch 
'em  back  to  her;  and  I  won't  lie  to  her  to  save 

him  gettin'  off  his  horse.  G !  how  my  leg 

hurts !  " 


ON   THE   EOAD   TO   THE  PASS.  173 

With  his  first  unguarded  impulse  Bodewin 
dropped  from  his  saddle  to  the  ground,  and 
stooped  frankly  and  compassionately  to  receive 
the  papers ;  and  at  the  instant  he  stooped  he  felt 
his  pistol  leaving  his  pistol-pocket.  A  hand  had 
withdrawn  it  from  behind.  It  was  the  hand  of 
his  ingenuous  guide.  Turning  sharply  as  he 
straightened  himself,  Bode  win's  head  nearly 
touched  the  muzzle  of  another  revolver. 

"  Stop  !  "  a  hard  voice  called.  "  If  you  move 
you're  a  dead  man." 

Bodewin  did  not  move.  A  second  reason  for 
not  moving  had  presented  itself  in  the  shape  of  a 
pistol  held  against  the  other  side  of  his  head  by 
Miss  Newbold's  faithful  messenger.  One  deep 
and  fervent  curse  escaped  him,  and  then  Bodewin 
asked,  —  "  What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  We  want  you"  the  man  with  the  scar  replied. 
"Will  you  come  along  with  us,  or  do  you  want  to 
fight?" 

"  Fight !  "  said  Bodewin.  "  I've  got  a  good 
show,  haven't  I?" 

"  We're  a  little  too  soon  for  you,  that's  a  fact. 
Tie  his  hands,  Tony." 

"  You  needn't  tie  my  hands,"  Bodewin  expostu 
lated.  "  I  will  go  along  all  right." 


174  JOHN  BODEWIN' s  TESTIMONY. 

"You'd  better  mean  it,  if  you  say  so.  We 
don't  want  to  have  to  hurt  you." 

"I  don't  intend  to  get  hurt.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  with  me  ? " 

"  We're  goin'  to  keep  you  kind  of  quiet  for  a  few 

days.     You  won't  have  a  bad  time  of  it,  if  you're 

peaceable.      We'll  have  to  cover  your  eyes,  Mr. 

I  Bodewin.     We  don't  want  you  to  get  too  intimate 

/  with  the  road  we're  goin'.   Hand  me  the  rag,  Tony." 

,      "Would  you  mind  taking  my  handkerchief?" 

Bodewin  asked. 

The  man  with  the  scar  considerately  made  use 
of  Bode  win's  handkerchief  to  bind  his  eyes,  in 
stead  of  a  degraded  piece  of  calico  which  looked 
like  part  of  a  woman's  apron. 

. "  This  horse  will  not  lead,"  Bodewin  said  when 
the  party  was  mounted  and  ready  to  move  ;  "but 
he  will  follow  all  right  if  I  tell  him  to.  One  of 
you  can  ride  ahead  and  the  other  behind  me.  I 
will  promise  not  to  make  a  break  between  here 
and  your  camp." 

"  I'll  take  your  word  on  that,  boss."  The  elder 
man  had  dropped  his  hard  business  tone  for  the 
semi-confidential  drawl  he  reserved  for  social 
purposes.  "  Tony,  you  can  lead  off,  and  I'll  close 
up  the  percession." 


ON  THE  KOAD  TO  THE  PASS.       175 

"  And  you'll  do  the  talkin',"  Tony  remarked. 

"  Well,  if  I  don't  talk  I  can't  say  nothin',"  the 
elder  man  retorted. 

The  procession  moved  on  in  single  file,  Bodewin, 
disarmed  and  blindfolded,  between  his  two  captors. 
He  had  not  been  in  a  moment's  doubt  as  to  the 
author  of  this  wayside  pleasantry.  The  plan  of 
his  capture,  he  was  convinced,  had  originated  in 
a  subtler  brain  than  either  of  those  selected  to 
carry  it  out.  What  chiefly  hurt  him  was  the 
thought  that  his  disappearance  might  be  misun 
derstood  by  his  friends  of  the  Eagle  Bird.  His 
promise  to  appear  at  the  trial  had  delayed  the 
serving  of  the  subpoena;  they  might  conclude,  if 
disposed  to  doubt  his  good  faith,  that  he  had 
availed  himself  of  this  solitary  ride  to  give  them 
the  slip,  even  were  it  not  planned  for  that 
purpose.  If  he  could  but  send  some  message 
back!  The  thing  seemed  as  little  possible  as  to 
escape  himself.  All  that,  however,  could  wait. 
Deprived  of  eyesight,  his  remaining  senses  were 
doubly  on  the  alert  to  report  each  feature  of  the 
road.  By  the  sound  of  his  horse's  feet  he  knew 
they  were  still  on  the  trail.  They  followed  it 
but  a  short  distance,  perhaps  from  fear  of  meeting 
other  passengers,  then,  turning  to  the  left,  struck 


176  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

across  a  gravelly  ridge.  Bodewin  recognized  it  as 
one  of  those  numerous  lateral  moraines  making 
lesser  valleys  at  right  angles  to  the  great  valley 
of  the  Arkansas.  The  plan  of  march  was  not 
adapted  to  conversation.  Occasionally  a  voice 
would  admonish  Bodewin:  — 

"  Down  your  head  there,  pardner  !  Dodge  that 
tree  limb";  "Watch  out  for  them  quaking  asps"; 
or  "  Mind  that  badger-hole  on  the  up-hill  side." 

The  ridge,  inclining  always  toward  the  valley, 
dipped  suddenly,  and  the  horses  took  the  slide  one 
after  another,  carrying  soil  and  stones  with  them. 
Bodewin  made  no  attempt  to  guide  his  horse.  He 
had  trusted  Baldy's  feet  and  Baldy's  eyes  on 
many  a  dark  night  and  blind  trail.  At  the  foot 
of  the  ridge  they  crossed  a  piece  of  timber,  and 
beyond  it  Bodewin  could  hear  the  horses'  hoofs 
sucking  through  the  swampy  bottom.  Now  they 
were  rustling  past  a  willow  thicket,  now  wading 
into  the  coarse,  bunchy  grass  of  the  valley  pastur 
age  ;  southward  again,  the  soft  valley  wind  in 
their  faces,  the  sun  declining  from  the  zenith 
towards  the  west.  Now  into  a  gorge,  grassy  at 
first  and  wet,  then  steep  and  stony,  with  a  cool 
ness  as  of  rocks  high  and  near.  Bodewin  was 
positive  they  had  not  crossed  the  valley.  The 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  THE  PASS.       177 

plan  was  probably  to  wind  him  in  and  out 
between  those  narrow  divides  which  radiate  from 
each  great  peak  downwards  into  the  valley,  until 
he  had  become  •  confused,  then  double  on  their 
track  and  bring  him  to  some  spot  not  far  from 
the  camp  itself.  Another  reason  for  making  such 
a  mystery  of  their  route  occurred  to  Bodewin. 
His  abductors  no  doubt  were  arranging  matters 
so  that  after  his  release  he  should  not  be  able  to 
swear  to  the  place  where  he  had  been  detained. 

The  last  hour  of  the  ride  was  through  uninter 
rupted  woods,  and  here  no  idea  of  their  direction 
could  be  had.  They  were  not  the  burnt  woods ; 
the  shade  was  close  and  dark,  the  horses'  feet 
sounded  hollow  on  the  muffled  ground. 

"In  sight  of  camp,  pardner,"  said  the  elder 
guide.  "  You  can  pull  off  the  blinders." 

Bodewin  took  the  handkerchief  from  his  eyes 
and  looked  about  him  with  keen  interest.  He 
was  turning  a  new  page  of  his  experience,  which 
was  likely  to  prove  exciting,  if  not  instructive. 
The  wood  was  in  shadow.  Only  in  the  tree-tops 
the  sunlight  lingered,  letting  fall  a  gleam  here  and 
there,  to  burnish  a  trunk,  or  speckle  with  tawny 
lights  the  dark-red  forest  floor.  Beautiful  and 
solemn  and  peaceful  as  night  itself,  the  pine 


178  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

woods  stretched  before  him.  Was  not  this  a 
better  ending  to  a  day's  journey  than  the  one  he 
had  set  out  for  ?  —  the  crowd  on  the  platform  at 
the  new  railroad  terminus,  the  noisy  carload  of 
people,  the  train  banging  along  the  break-neck 
grades  of  the  Platte  Canon,  and  the  trial  and  the 
witness-stand?  The  decision  had  been  taken  out 
of  his  hands,  and  Harkins  was  getting  even  with 
his  debtor  in  a  unique  fashion  of  his  own.  Bode- 
win's  courage  was  of  a  deliberate  and  philosophic 
kind.  He  was  too  indifferent  to  danger  to 
seek  it,  nor  was  he  possessed  by  that  necessity  to 
fight  under  any  provocation  which  belongs  to  men 
of  the  "game  "  variety.  He  was  game  in  a  some 
what  different  sense.  He  had  remained  quiet 
when  he  found  himself  disarmed,  with  a  pistol  at 
each  ear,  not  from  fear  of  the  pistols,  but  from  an 
objection  to  an  illogical  suicide.  His  blood  had 
been  cool  enough  to  let  his  mind  work,  and  to 
Bode  win's  mind  to  have  invited  death  at  such 
hands,  and  in  such  a  manner,  would  have  been 
supremely  objectless  and  silly.  Yet  there  was  a 
taint  of  moral  poltroonery  in  him.  It  revealed 
itself  in  the  relief  with  which  he  welcomed  the 
•  utter  irresponsibility  of  his  situation.  From  a 
man  who  had  been  morbidly  conscious  of  his 


ON   THE   ROAD   TO   THE   PASS.  179 

responsibilities,  he  had  become  one  who  was  sick 
of  the  very  word.  He  was  almost  glad  to  be 
deprived  of  his  rights  for  a  time,  that  he  might 
enjoy  a  corresponding  suspension  of  his  duties. 
He  had  got  down  now  to  the  ground  floor  of 
social  ethics,  where  the  law  of  self-preservation, 
was  uncomplicated  by  subtleties  of  mutual  obli 
gation. 

"  In  sight  of  camp,"  the  man  with  the  scar  had 
announced  —  and  now  the  camp  itself  was  close 
at  hand.  Where  had  he  known  this  place  before? 
The  long-backed  cabin,  overtopped  by  the  dump 
of  a  deserted  prospect-hole,  the  bench  under  the 
projecting  roof,  the  little  corral.  This  was  Craig's 
cabin,  beyond  a  doubt,  even  though  Hillbury  had 
failed  to  find  it.  Bode  win  was  charmed  by  the 
sequence  of  events. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A   MESSAGE   TO    THE   CAMP. 

THE  three  men  dismounted  at  the  door  of  the 
cabin,  leaving  their  horses  standing.  Bodewin 
untied  his  blanket  roll  and  rubber  coat  from  the 
back  of  his  saddle,  and  tossed  them  on  the  bench 
beside  the  door,  while  Tony,  seated  on  the  bench, 
kept  an  eye  upon  him.  The  elder  man,  whom 
Tony  called  Dad,  had  gone  into  the  cabin.  In  a 
few  minutes  he  returned,  laughing  and  shaking 
his  head. 

Tony's  look  expressed  sulky  inquiry  as  to  the 
cause  of  his  merriment. 

"Babe's  mad,"  he  explained.  "Says  she  won't 
have  no  men  folks  round,  inside  there,  till  grub's 
ready." 

"  What's  she  mad  about  now?  "  asked  Tony. 

"  About  this  yer  company  we  brought  home," 

said  Dad,  winking  at  Bodewin.      "She  'lows  she 

don't  take  no  hand  in  this  kind  of  entertainment. 

She'll  give  you  enough  to  eat,  though,"  he  added. 

180 


A   MESSAGE   TO   THE   CAMP.  181 

"Why  don't  you  go  in  there  and  make  her 
quit?"  Tony  suggested. 

"  Go  in  yourself,  if  you  want  to.  I've  learned 
to  let  women  folks  alone  when  they  are  plumb 
full  o'  mad." 

Tony  went  to  the  door  and  tried  to  open  it.  It 
was  fastened  from  within. 

"  Babe  !  "  he  called,  "  Oh,  Babe  !  Come  out  yer ! 
Ain't  ye  'shamed !  —  Give  yau  a  dollar  if  she 
don't  come,"  he  said  to  Bodewin  parenthetically. 

Bodewin  laughed. 

"  Give  you  forty  if  she  does  !  "  Dad  jeered. 

Tony  continued  calling  and  pounding  until  the 
door  on  a  sudden  was  violently  thrown  back  and 
Babe  herself  appeared  on  the  threshold,  fronting 
the  cool  daylight,  with  a  glow  of  firelight  behind 
her,  which  reddened  the  murky  interior  of  the 
cabin. 

Babe  was  a  tall,  white-throated,  full-bosomed 
girl  of  seventeen,  at  this  moment  red  with  wrath, 
her  blue  eyes  big  and  dark  under  her  low,  flat, 
white  brow.  Her  skin  was  white  as  birch-wood 
stripped  of  its  bark,  but  under  it  were  muscles  as 
tough  as  Tony's  own. 

"  Who's  callin'  Babe  round  yer  ?  " 

The  words  were  flung  out  with  a  look  intended 


182  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

for  Tony.  But  Tony  had  retired  as  the  door 
opened,  and  the  look  fell  hot  from  the  stormy 
blue  eyes  into  Bodewin's  cool  gray  ones,  as  he 
leaned  a  little  forward  from  his  seat  on  the  bench. 
One  look  was  enough.  Babe  retreated,  banging 
the  door  behind  her.  Dad  and  Tony  burst  into 
loud  laughter,  Dad  fairly  shedding  tears  in  his 
excess  of  mirth. 

"  Babe  wilted  then,  for  sure  !  "  said  Tony ;  and 
Dad,  turning  to  Bodewin,  who  had  remained  per 
fectly  grave,  apologized  for  his  daughter. 

"Babe's  always  skeere.d  of  strangers;  she  don't 
mean  no  thin'.  Here  you,  Tony,  quit  laughin'  at 
your  sister,  and  go  take  care  of  them  critters ! " 

The  two  horses  which  were  at  home  had 
strayed  off  towards  the  corral,  while  Baldy,  ob 
servant  of  his  master's  movements,  remained  near 
the  cabin.  Tony  walked  leisurely  towards  him, 
and  put  out  his  hand  to  take  his  bridle-rein. 
Baldy  jumped  away  a  few  feet.  Tony  stepped 
quickly  after  him  and  caught  at  the  rein.  Baldy 
whirled  off  and  let  fly  at  Tony  with  his  heels. 
Bodewin  smiled,  and  Dad  looked  interested. 

"Stop  your  jumpin'  and  go  to  him  quietlike 
and  speak  to  him,"  he  suggested. 

Tony  replied  with  a  scornful  jerk  of  his  head, 


A  MESSAGE  TO   THE   CAMP.  183 

and  made  another  rush  for  Baldy's  rein,  calling, 
"  Whoa,  there  !  "  Baldy  swerved,  reared,  tossing 
his  rein  up  in  the  air  out  of  Tony's  reach. 

"  That's  right,  Tony,  cuss  a  little  ;  maybe  that'll 
git  him."  Dad  chuckled  and  Bodewin  laughed 
outright. 

"  He  can't  catch  that  horse ;  he  won't  let  any 
one  catch  him  but  me." 

Tony  heard  Bodewin's  remark. 

"  I'll  bet,  by ,  I  can  catch  him  !  "  he  said. 

Returning  to  the  cabin,  he  took  down  a  coiled 
lasso  that  hung  within  convenient  reach  by  the 
door. 

Dad  and  Bodewin  watched  him  in  silence  as  he 
adjusted  the  rope  for  a  throw.  Baldy  had  trotted 
off  a  little  way.  As  Tony  ran  towards  him  swing 
ing  the  rope  above  his  head,  the  horse  stopped  and 
seemed  to  wait  for  the  throw.  The  rope  left 
Tony's  hand,  the  loop  widened,  and  Baldy,  stand 
ing  perfectly  still,  put  his  long  white  nose  to  the 
sod.  The  lasso  settled  down  upon  his  neck  and 
shoulders,  and  slid  harmless  to  the  ground.  Baldy 
gave  one  quick  jump  sideways,  then  walked  away, 
turning  his  sagacious  eye  backward  towards  his 
master. 

"  Lawd  in  the  mornin' ! "  Dad  exclaimed,  smiting 


184  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

his  knees  with  both  hands,  "but  that  horse  has 
got  sense !  How'd  you  1'arn  him  not  to  leave  no 
handle  for  the  lass'  to  ketch  on  ?  " 

Tony  made  another  run  for  the  horse  and  an 
other  throw,  but  again  Baldy  was  as  a  graven  im 
age,  with  his  nose  and  all  four  feet  touching  the 
ground. 

Bodewin  now  stood  up  and  called  him  to  him. 
Baldy  came  at  the  word  and  stood  beside  his  mas 
ter,  with  an  imperturbable  gravity  and  innocence 
in  his  white-ey clashed  eyes.  Bodewin  waited, 
stroking  Baldy 's  nose,  until  Tony,  panting  and 
swearing,  had  drawn  near.  Then  he  said,  "  Now 
I'll  show  you  another  little  thing  he  can  do,"  and 
giving  Baldy's  nose  a  shove  with  the  palm  of  his 
hand,  he  spoke  the  order  quick  and  sharp :  "  Al 
corral!  Anda!  Ve-te!" 

As  Baldy  sprang  forward  Bodewin  struck  him 
on  the  hip.  The  horse  shot  away  down  the  slope 
from  the  cabin.  Dad  looked  on  contentedly, 
watching  for  the  next  manoeuvre ;  but  Tony, 
already  suspicious,  was  now  raging,  sure  that 
Bodewin  had  tricked  them  and  that  Baldy  was  off 
for  camp.  The  horse  was  nearly  a  hundred  yards 
away,  going  at  full  speed,  when  Tony  fired  at  him 
between  the  tree-trunks  once  and  missed  him; 


A  MESSAGE  TO  THE  CAMP.  185 

twice  —  he  did  not  stop;  a  third  shot  would  have 
been  useless. 

Tony  turned  to  Bodewin,  with  his  smoking 
pistol  in  his  hand. 

"That's  your  racket,  is  it?  You've  sent  that 
horse  to  town." 

Bodewin  looked  white  and  ugly. 

u  He'll  just  tell  them  I  got  your  papers,  that's 
all,"  he  said. 

uYou  oughtn't  to  V  fired,  Tony,"  said  Dad. 
"  I  believe  you  hit  him.  A  bullet-hole  won't  look 
well  onto  him." 

"I  wish  to I'd  killed  him!  They'll  be 

scourin'  the  whole  country." 

"  You're  mighty  right."  Then  turning  to  Bode 
win,  Dad  said,  "  Mr.  Bodewin,  you'll  have  to  be 
kep'  pretty  clost  for  a  few  days." 

"  All  right,"  Bodewin  replied.  "  By  the  way, 
what  am  I  to  call  you?  You  introduced  yourself, 
but  you  didn't  mention  your  name." 

"My  name  —  well  —  it's  —  Jim  —  Jim  Keesner." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Keesner." 

The  door  opened,  and  Babe,  still  flustered,  but 
shy-eyed  and  lofty,  called  them  in  to  supper. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

CIRCUMSTANTIAL  EVIDENCE. 

EARLY  on  the  morning  after  Bodewin's  disap 
pearance  a  telegram  from  Mr.  Craig  was  received 
at  the  mine,  asking  news  of  Bodewin.  Two  men 
had  already  set  out  from  the  camp  to  search  the 
trail  for  signs  which  might  lead  to  some  conclu 
sion  as  to  what  had  become  of  him.  None  were 
found,  nor  was  there  evidence  of  any  kind  indicat 
ing  a  struggle  by  the  wayside.  Various  theories 
were  advanced  as  to  Bodewin's  fate,  but  the 
general  opinion  in  the  camp,  in  view  of  his  known 
reluctance  to  appear  on  the  trial,  wTas  what  he 
himself  had  expected  it  would  be.  The  pistol- 
mark  on  Baldy's  hip  was  pronounced,  by  experts 
in  such  matters,  the  work  of  a  hand  that  had  been 
careful  not  to  aim  too  well  —  probably  the  hand 
of  Baldy's  master.  If  Bodewin  had  been  stopped 
on  the  road  by  persons  who  had  reasons  for  not 
wishing  their  business  with  him  to  be  known, 

186 


CIRCUMSTANTIAL  EVIDENCE.  187 

they  would  never  have  allowed  his  horse  to 
escape,  especially  with  that  mark  upon  him.  So 
said  the  men  of  experience.  That  any  such 
persons  would  have  allowed  the  horse  to  get 
beyond  range  of  a  dead-sure  shot  was  too  wild  an 
improbability  altogether.  Bodewin,  no  doubt, 
was  hiding  out  until  after  the  trial,  and  had  sent 
Baldy  home  with  a  blood-stain  on  him  to  lead  con 
jecture  astray. 

In  these  days  Josephine  felt  strongly  drawn 
towards  Hillbury.  She  saw  him  frequently,  but 
he  never  spoke  to  her  of  Bodewin,  even  when  the 
latter's  disappearance  was  the  one  topic  in  the 
camp,  and  she  believed  that  his  silence,  like  her 
own,  covered  a  heartache  to  which  words  could 
give  no  relief.  Hillbury  was  no  less  drawn 
towards  Josephine.  She  was  more  beautiful  than 
ever,  he  thought.  She  had  the  look  of  one  who  was 
suffering.  He  would  have  been  glad  to  believe  it 
was  not  for  Bodewin's  sake  —  from  no  reason 
personal  to  himself,  —  so  he  assured  himself,  — 
but  from  a  lamentable  suspicion,  that  cut  him 
very  deep  on  the  score  of  friendship,  that  Bodewin 
was  unworthy.  Hillbury  was  not  yet  willing  to 
believe  him  so,  but  the  doubt  was  in  itself  a 
trouble.  It  was  also  a  responsibility,  for  while  he 


188  JOHN   BODE  WIN'S   TESTIMONY. 

harbored  it  he  felt  like  a  traitor  to  his  friend ;  yet 
he  could  not  free  himself  from  it. 

A  few  days  before  Bodewin  took  his  ride  up  the 
pass,  Hillbury  had  made  a  second  search  for  the 
mysterious  cabin.  He  had  found  it,  and  there 
began  his  sadness.  He  had  come  upon  it  as 
unexpectedly  as  if  it  had  sprung  up  out  of  the 
earth.  Some  accident  of  the  location  had  the 
curious  effect  to  render  it  invisible  from  any 
point  of  view  that  was  not  very  near.  There 
was  no  one  at  home,  or  so  Hillbury  supposed. 
Finding  himself  out  of  matches  and  in  urgent 
want  of  a  smoke,  he  pushed  open  the  door,  after 
the  unceremonious  fashion  of  the  region,  and 
looked  about  within  for  what  he  required.  He 
had  expected  to  find  a  match  or  two  without  any 
trouble,  then  quietly  to  go  his  ways  and  pass  on 
his  obligation  to  some  other  needy  wayfarer.  But 
the  matches  were  not  in  any  of  the  usual  places. 
He  found  them  at  last  in  an  Indian  basket  of 
braided  grasses,  made  in  the  shape  of  half  a  hollow 
sphere,  that  rocked  when  he  touched  it,  on  the 
corner  of  a  high  wooden  shelf.  Poking  about  in 
it  for  a  match  with  a  buckskin  glove  on,  he  upset 
it  and  spilled  its  contents  on  the  floor,  —  sewing 
materials,  a  woman's  thimble,  the  matches,  an 


CIRCUMSTANTIAL  EVIDENCE.  189 

imperfect  pack  of  cards,  one  of  them  cut  as  for 
the  measure  of  a  hem  or  tuck,  and  —  a  photo 
graph  of  John  Bodewin!  An  old  and  faded 
picture  of  him  in  his  cavalry  uniform,  slim  in 
figure,  with  the  boyish  face  fixed  in  that  slightly 
exaggerated  look  of  determination  which  charac 
terized  the  pictures  of  our  young  volunteers. 
The  mustache  was  faintly  perceptible,  the  hair  a 
little  longer  than  Bodewin's  present  cut,  but  it 
was  Bodewin  without  the  shadow  of  a  doubt. 
Hillbury  was  touched  at  seeing  the  face  of  his 
friend  as  he  had  known  it  fifteen  years  before ;  it 
sobered  him  with  a  rush  of  recollections;  and 
then  came  the  cold  conjecture,  how  should  it  be 
there  —  in  the  cabin  which  Bodewin  had  declared 
was  purely  of  Craig's  invention?  Hillbury  hated 
mysteries.  He  wished  his  friends'  lives  to  be, 
like  his  own,  in  no  need  of  explanation  or  de 
fence.  Here  was  something  to  be  accounted  for. 
While  he  stood  musing,  with  the  picture  in  his 
hand,  the  outer  door  of  the  cabin  was  pushed 
open,  and  a  girl,  bareheaded,  carrying  an,  apronful 
of  pine  chips,  entered  the  room.  Hillbury  was 
not  as  surprised  to  see  her  as  she  evidently  was  to 
see  him.  He  had  recognized  her  at  once  as  the 
girl  of  Craig's  adventure.  He  apologized  for  his 


190  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

intrusion.  The  girl  had  let  fall  her  apron-load  on 
the  hearth,  and  stood  as  if  waiting  for  him  to  take 
his  departure.  Her  beauty  corresponded  to  Craig's 
description  better  than  her  manner.  That  "sweet, 
stolid  way  "  he  had  spoken  of  was  not  conspicu 
ous  to-  Hillbury's  notice.  At  that  moment,  cer 
tainly,  she  looked  neither  sweet  nor  stolid,  but 
rather  keenly  and  resentfully  observant  of  her 
visitor.  There  was  in  Hillbury's  manner  a  cer 
tain  superiority,  as  a  matter  of  course,  which  his 
equals  admitted  and  even  liked,  if  he  happened 
to  like  them,  but  which  his  inferiors,  socially 
speaking,  were  apt  to  find  as  uncompanionable 
as  a  "  no  trespass "  on  a  signboard.  Hillbury 
appreciated  the  girl's  beauty,  in  the  abstract, 
as  he  would  have  appreciated  the  beauty  of 
a  perfect  crystal ;  as  a  woman,  she  had  no 
existence  for  him,  and,  as  a  woman,  she  instantly 
felt  it. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Hillbury,  suddenly  aware 
that  he  was  still  holding  the  photograph.  "Is 
this  a  picture  of  a  friend  of  yours?" 

"No,"  said  the  girl.  She  seemed  to  hesitate, 
and  then  added,  "  not  to  say  a  friend." 

Hillbury  could  not  help  seeing  that  she  was 
blushing,  and  that  some  excitement  made  her 


CIRCUMSTANTIAL   EVIDENCE.  191 

breath  come  deep  and  short.  It  might  be  anger, 
but  it  did  not  look  like  it. 

"Is  it — pardon  me  again — a  friend  of  your 
father's  ?  "  The  girl  did  not  reply,  and  Hillbury 
added,  "I  take  the  liberty  of  asking  because  it  is 
a  picture  of  a  friend  of  mine,  and  I  cannot  help 
being  surprised  to  find  it  here." 

Hillbury  could  not  help  laying  a  slight  emphasis 
on  the  last  word.  The  girl's  color  deepened  as 
she  said,  "  I  do'  know  as  you  had  any  call  to  find 
it  here." 

"  Very  true,"  Hillbury  admitted,  smiling  in  ac 
knowledgment  of  the  just  retort;  "but  you  see 
I  have  found  it,  as  it  happens,  and  really  I  would 
like  to  know  how  it  came  here." 

"Well,  then,  I  can't  tell  you." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  cannot  tell  me  because  you 
do  not  know  ?  " 

"  I  mean  you  needn't  ask  me  no  more  questions, 
for  I  won't  answer  'em." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Hillbury ;  "  here  is  the  pic 
ture,  and  here  is  my  card.  When  you  see  this 
gentleman  again,  please  hand  it  to  him,  will 
you?" 

The  girl  took  the  picture  and  the  card  he  gave 
her.  She  looked  doubtfully  at  the  words,  "  U.  S. 


192  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

Geological  Survey,"  engraved  beneath  the  name. 
They  conveyed  to  her  mind  no  idea  beyond  that 
vague  suspicion  with  which  the  passwords  of  the 
educated  class  are  regarded  by  the  ignorant.  She 
was  not  sure  that  this  easy  yet  distant  stranger 
was  not  making  her  in  some  way  the  instrument 
of  his  diversion  —  perhaps  at  her  own  expense. 

Hillbury  stood  in  the  doorway,  watching  her 
||  with  puzzled,  unhappy  interest.  Her  beauty,  as 
of  a  perfect  young  animal,  a  triumphant  survival 
of  the  fittest  feminine  type,  impressed  him  the 
more  as  he  examined  it.  She  was  as  handsome  as 
Josephine,  and  as  much  more  dangerous,  to  the 
average  man,  as  passion  without  discipline  could 
make  her. 

The  girl  found  nothing  to  reassure  her  in  Hill- 
bury's  inscrutable  dark  eyes.  He  lifted  his  hat 
and  gravely  wished  her  good-afternoon,  and  again 
his  courtesy  seemed  to  remind  her  of  the  distance 
between  them. 

Hillbury  had  a  great  fondness  for  Bodewin. 
He  was  quite  used  to  disapproving  of  him.  He 
was  always  longing  to  put  him  to  rights,  to  rouse 
his  ambition,  and  make  him  show  for  what  he  was 
worth.  But,  illogical  as  Bodewin's  life  was,  in  his 
friend's  opinion,  and  provoking  as  were  his  habits, 


CIRCUMSTANTIAL   EVIDENCE.  193 

Hillbury  had  ever  found  him  one  of  the  most 
truthful,  sensitive,  and  scrupulous  of  men.  Yet 
he  was  aware  that  there  was  a  side  of  Bodewin's 
life  he  knew  nothing  of.  There  had  been  a  jour 
ney  to  Deadwood  to  which  Bodewin  had  never 
referred,  though  it  was  evident  to  all  who  knew 
him  that,  in  one  way  or  another,  it  had  been  a  hard 
trip  for  him ;  and  there  was  this  trouble  with  Har- 
kins  which  Bodewin  had  gloomily  alluded  to. 
Why  not  go  to  him  frankly  and  ask  him  what  all 
this  nonsense  was  about,  and  what,  in  particular, 
he  meant  by  pretending  ignorance  of  a  house 
where  a  discussion  of  his  picture  called  up  so  much 
feeling  on  the  part  of  a  pretty  resident  ?  Decid 
edly  that  was  the  proper  thing  to  do.  Since 'he 
had  spoken  of  Bodewin  in  the  matter,  he  could  do 
no  less  than  speak  to  him.  He  would  open  the 
subject  on  the  first  suitable  occasion.  No  such 
occasion  came,  however.  It  seemed  almost  as  if 
Bodewin  might  be  trying  to  avoid  him.  Hillbury 
did  not  see  him  again  to  speak  with  him  before  his 
departure  for  Denver. 

Hillbury  had  certain  convictions  which  he  never 
expressed,  because  they  were  incapable  of  proof. 
One  of  these  was  the  conviction  that  Bodewin  was 
not  dead.  About  two  weeks  after  Bodewin's  dis- 


194  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

appearance,  when  all  efforts  to  find  him  or  to  learn 
his  fate  had  ceased  in  the  camp,  Hillbuiy  set  out 
one  day  alone  in  search  of  his  friend.  He  had 
mentioned  to  no  one  the  object  of  his  journey. 
He  took  the  same  way  by  which  he  had  guided 
Mrs.  Craig's  party  to  the  lake.  He  passed  the 
burnt  timber,  entered  the  spruce  forest,  and,  plod 
ding  on  through  gleam  and  shadow,  kept  the  trail 
as  far  as  a  certain  ridge  which  he  followed,  moving 
now  more  slowly  and  looking  about  him  for  that 
little  hollow  where  the  cabin  lurked,  and  where 
he  expected  to  find,  yet  hoped  not  to  find,  his 
friend. 

.  He  came  upon  the  cabin  from  the  rear,  and  find 
ing  the  ground  around  the  prospect-hole  unsuit 
able  for  a  nearer  approach  on  horseback,  he 
dismounted,  and  walked  around  the  cabin  towards 
its  entrance.  He  could  see  the  porch  while  he 
was  still  some  distance  from  it,  —  the  long  bench, 
sheltered  by  the  projecting  roof,  —  and  seated  there, 
conspicuous  in  the  morning  sunlight,  he  saw  John 
Bode  win.  His  back  was  partly  turned  to  Hill- 
bury.  Against  his  shoulder  rested  a  woman's 
head,  a  young  head,  thickly  covered  with  light, 
shining  hair.  His  hand  seemed  to  press  it  closer, 
while  his  head  was  bent  over  the  face  beneath  his 


CIRCUMSTANTIAL  EVIDENCE.  195 

own.  An  idyllic  stillness  and  peace  surrounded 
the  solitary  cabin.  There  seemed  no  one  in  the 
forest  but  these  two  silent,  lover-like  figures  —  and 
Hillbury,  who  had  set  his  foot  within  their  para 
dise.  Hillbury  did  not  see  a  man  seated,  smoking, 
on  the  farther  end  of  the  bench,  where  a  hop  vine 
sheltered  it.  He  looked  but  an  instant  upon  what 
he  believed  to  be  his  friend's  disgrace,  and  then 
tramped  fiercely  back  to  the  spot  where  he  had 
left  his  horse. 

As  he  rode  homeward  through  the  melancholy 
spruces,  his  hot  disgust  passed,  and  left  a  feeling 
as  if  he  had  come  from  a  burial.  "I  knew  he  was 
not  dead.  Would  that  he  were  —  would  that  he/ 
were,  rather  than  this  I  "  He  lay  sleepless  in  his 
blankets  that  night  before  his  camp-fire,  going 
over  and  over  again  the  evidence  against  Bode  win, 
and  trying  to  find  some  flaw  in  the  chain  of 
proofs. 

He  remembered  that  Bodewin  had  not  joined 
in  the  mirth  over  Craig's  story  of  the  cabin  and 
the  pretty,  golden-haired  girl  who  had  said  she 
was  a  stranger  in  those  parts.  He  had  declared 
there  was  no  such  cabin.  He  had  afterwards 
seemed  to  waver  and  half  withdraw  the  assertion. 
The  cabin  had  been  found,  and  his  picture  had 


196  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

been  seen  there.      The  girl  had  blushed,  and  re 
fused  to  talk  of  it  or  of  him.     He  had  refused  to 

?  {  go  on  the  Eagle  Bird  case  because  of  some  myste- 

'  rious  hold  Harkins  had  on  him  through  a  woman. 

1  He  had  been  on  the  verge  of  a  confession,  or  an 
explanation,  which  was  evidently  painful  to  him. 
He  had  at  the  last  moment  consented  to  give  his 
testimony,  had  declined  to  go  over  the  range  with 
the  Eagle  Bird  outfit,  had  gone  alone,  and  had 
not  been  heard  from  since.  He  was  at  the  cabin 

'  in  the  woods,  the  cabin  he  had  pretended  to  doubt 
the  existence  of,  comfortably  secluded,  in  the 
society  of  a  handsome  girl,  of  a  class  from  which 
he  could  not  take  a  wife. 

Would  that  he  were  dead !  Hillbur}^  summed 
up  the  case  against  his  friend.  The  sad,  pure, 
sensitive  Bodewin,  negligent,  yet  over-scrupulous, 
whom  he  had  loved  and  watched  over  for  many 
years,  was  no  more,  —  nor  had  he  ever  been.  The 
poor  fellow  had  his  own  strange  charm.  Hillbury 
owned  it  and  missed  it,  even  then  when  he  be 
lieved  that  he  had  long  been  misled  by  it.  The 
next  evening  he  went  to  see  Josephine.  He  went 
more  than  once  to  see  her ;  nor  could  he  yet  assure 
himself  that  she  was  not  grieving  silently  for 
Bodewin.  One  evening  he  asked  her  if  she  would 


CIRCUMSTANTIAL  EVIDENCE.  197 

take  a  ride  with  him  in  the  valley.  She  turned 
red  and  then  pale. 

"No,"  she  said;  "I  hate  the  valley  !  " 

"Wherever  else  you  please,  then." 

"No,  not  anywhere,  thank  you.  I  shall  rtofr 
ride  any  more  while  I  am  here." 

When  he  went  home  that  night,  he  said  to  him 
self,  "  She,  too,  is  mourning  for  the  living  dead." 
And  when  he  considered  how  her  thoughts  must[ 
be  dwelling  on  the  recreant  Bodewin  and  idealiz 
ing  him  in  his  absence,  the  folly  of  his  friend's 
conduct  seemed  to  him  almost  more  tragic  than 
its  baseness. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

BABE. 

THE  Keesner  cabin  consisted  of  two  rooms,  one 

\ 

behind  the  other,  with  an  unfinished  loft  above 
them.  The  rear  room  was  built  into  the  hill,  win- 
dowless,  and  lighted  only  from  the  adjoining  room. 
Babe  had  slept  in  this  part  of  the  cabin,  called 
the  "dug-out,"  until  Bodewin  became  one  of  the 
family,  when  it  was  given  to  him,  and  Babe  took 
the  garret  for  her  bedroom. 

The  Keesners,  father  and  son,  slept  below  in  the 
outer  room,  across  the  doorway  of  Bodewin's 
room.  They  lay,  with  their  guns  beside  them,  on 
a  camp  blanket  sewed  to  the  hem  of  the  calico 
curtain  which  covered  the  doorway.  The  blanket 
was  an  extension  of  the  curtain;  sleeping  on  it, 
they  were  thus  in  a  position  to  be  disturbed  by 
any  movement  of  it  from  within. 

At  five  o'clock  on  the  morning  after  his  capture, 
Bodewin  and  his  keepers  were  still  asleep.  The 
interior  of  the  cabin  was  dim  and  quiet  as  the 

198 


BABE.  199 

gray  morning  twilight  in  the  woods  outside. 
Babe  had  been  softly  moving  about  overhead,  and 
now  she  came  down  the  ladder  which,  propped 
against  a  square  hole  in  the  floor  of  the  garret, 
served  for  a  staircase.  A  few  red  coals  were  still 
winking  among  the  ashes-  on  the  hearth.  She 
raked  them  out,  and  started  a  blaze  with  kindlings 
laid  ready  overnight.  Then  she  took  the  water- 
pail,  and  went  out  to  fill  it  at  the  well.  By  this 
time,  her  father  and  brother  were  awake.  They 
got  up  with  a  noise  of  boots  like  horses  waking 
in  their  stalls,  and  limped,  grumbling  and  cursing, 
to  the  fire. 

"  Floor  gits  mighty  cold,  nights,"  said  the  elder 
Keesner.  "Dum  nigh  par'lized!"  he  muttered, 
rubbing  his  chilled  joints.  Tony,  squatting  on 
the  hearth,  shoulders  drawn  together,  and  hands 
spread  to  the  warmth,  spat  into  the  ashes  in 
silence. 

Bodewin  now  came  out  and  asked  for  water  to 
wash  with.  Neither  of  the  men  stirred,  but  Dad 
said :  — 

"  Guess  Babe  ain't  done  with  the  basin  yet." 

Tony,  on  reflection,  went  to  the  door  and  ordered 
her  to  hurry  up,  and  was  in  turn  ordered  by  his 
father  to  «  shut  that  door !  " 


200 

In  a  few  moments  Babe  came  in,  looking  pink 
about  the  ears  and  elbows,  with  damp  rings  of 
hair  standing  out  around  her  forehead,  and  offered 
to  Bode  win  a  clean  bright  tin  basin,  which  had 
been  not  only  emptied  but  wiped.  She  filled  it 
for  him  as  he  held  it,  gave  him  a  coarse  clean 
towel  and  a  square  of  yellow  soap ;  but  not  a 
glance  or  a  word  did  she  bestow  upon  him. 

"'Tain't  often  Babe's  mad  lasts  overnight,"  her 
father  remarked  as  she  left  the  room. 

When  Bodewin,  his  camp  toilet  completed,  went 
to  the  door  to  empty  the  tin  basin,  he  was  fain  to 
linger  there  a  moment  for  another  look  at  Babe. 
She  was  hanging  out  the  blankets  to  air,  standing 
a  little  way  off,  in  the  clear  morning  sunlight, 
against  the  bronze  and  green  tones  of  the  forest 
distance.  Her  attitude,  with  both  arms  lifted, 
showed  the  nymph-like  proportions  of  her  form. 
From  the  back-thrown  head,  and  full  short  curve 
of  the  chin  melting  into  the  long  white  curve  of 
the  throat,  to  the  strong-springing  line  of  her 
instep,  that  lightly  upbore  her  to  her  fullest 
height,  she  was  to  the  eye  perfect. 

Bodewin  prudently  reflected  that  her  speech 
would  probably  be  disillusioning.  Dad  Keesner 
and  Tony  had  followed  him  closely  with  their 


BABE.  201 

rifles  in  their  Lands.  He  turned  suddenly  from 
the  open  door  and  confronted  them,  glancing 
coolly  from  their  faces  to  their  weapons. 

"You  don't  need  to  go  to  that  door  again,"  said 
Dad ;  and  Tony  added,  "  We  kin  empty  your 
slops  for  you." 

At  breakfast  the  three  men  sat  down  together, 
and  Babe  waited  on  them.     Bodewin  thought  of 
those  long-haired,  white-armed  northern  captives 
serving  in  the  tents  of  their  conquerors.     Babe's  j 
beauty  had  in  it  the  element  of  tragedy,  as  heh 
discovered  when  he  tried  to  find  her  prototype  in  \j 
romance  or  tradition. 

During  the  next  three  days  Bodewin  was  con 
fined  to  the  cabin,  Dad  and  Tony  relieving  each 
other  in  the  close  watch  they  kept  upon  him.  He 
saw  much  of  Babe,  as  she  went  and  came  about 
her  housework,  but  he  was  far  too  wise  in  the 
ways  of  all  proud,  shy,  dependent  creatures  to 
force  himself  in  the  slightest  upon  her  notice. 
He  was  tolerably  sure  that  he  was  observed,  and 
that  keenly,  but  he  was  not  impatient  to  learn  the 
nature  of  Babe's  conclusions  with  regard  to  him 
self.  In  small,  unobtrusive  ways  he  made  himself 
useful  to  her,  but  most  of  the  time  he  was  occu 
pied  with  mild  resources  of  his  own  to  which  she 


202  JOHN  BODEWIN' s  TESTIMONY. 

was  a  stranger.  He  made  sketches  in  his  note 
book.  Happening  to  have  about  him  a  stylo- 
graphic  pen  charged  with  ink,  he  took  advantage 
of  its  unexpected  fluency,  and  copied  some  strag 
gling  pencil-notes  from  one  book  into  another. 
This  latter  amusement,  however,  aroused  the  sus 
picions  of  his  keepers.  Keesner  remarked  that 
there  wasn't  any  post-office  anywhere  in  that  part 
of  the  woods,  and  that  he  guessed  Bodewin's  let 
ters  could  wait. 

Bodewin  took  the  hint  good-humoredly  enough. 
It  was  part  of  the  situation  which  he  had  decided 
to  accept.  But  afterwards,  as  he  sat  smoking  by 
the  fire,  his  occupation  gone,  his  face  fell  into  its 
habitual  expression,  a  sadness  which  bore  no  refer 
ence  to  his  present  circumstances,  but  was  rather 
an  aggregation  dating  from  the  time  of  his  moody 
boyhood.  Babe,  looking  at  him  wistfully,  and 
forgetting  in  his  evident  abstraction  to  ignore  his 
presence  in  the  room,  interpreted  it  otherwise. 
Bodewin,  having  nothing  else  to  do,  continued  to 
smoke,  and  to  stare  at  the  water  which  was  begin 
ning  to  ruffle  in  a  saucepan  propped  on  two  stones 
above  a  bed  of  coals.  Babe  had  gone  out  of 
doors.  Shortly  she  returned  with  something  that 
moved,  bundled  in  her  apron.  She  came  over  to 


BABE.  203 

the  hearth,  knelt  in  front  of  Bode  win,  and  lower 
ing  her  arms  showed  him  a  young  setter  dog,  that 
immediately  began  whirling  about  in  her  lap  and 
caressing  her  hands  and  face  alternately.  She 
muzzled  his  nose  with  both  hands. 

"  Pretty,  ain't  he  ? "  she  asked,  smiling  down 
into  the  creature's  face,  and  trying  to  fix  his  soft, 
restless  brown  eyes  with  her  own.  The  dog 
snuffed  and.  struggled,  and  tried  to  free  his  nose 
from  the  pressure  of  her  circling  fingers.  Bode- 
win  leaned  down  and  admired  him,  pulling  his 
ears,  looking  at  his  teeth,  and  inquiring  his  age 
and  name. 

"  We  call  him  '  Pardner,'  "  Babe  replied  to  the 
last  question.  "Don't  you  want  him  to  play  with? 
He's  heaps  of  company." 

The  dog  was  transferred  from  Babe's  lap  to 
Bodewin's  knees.  As  Pardner  objected'  to  the 
smell  of  tobacco,  Bodewin  put  his  pipe  in  his 
pocket.  Babe  stood  up,  and  for  a  moment  lost 
her  shyness  of  Bodewin  in  the  fond  content  with 
which  she  regarded  his  wooing  of  her  pet.  She 
remonstrated  with  Pardner  for  chewing  Bodewin's 
sleeve-buttons,  but  evidently  thought  no  less  of 
Bodewin  for  holding  his  ornaments  so  cheap,  or 
the  dog  so  dear. 


204  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"  You  can  fool  with  him  all  you  want  to,"  she 
said  finally.  "  He  don't  belong  to  anybody  in  this 
house  but  me." 

After  these  first  few  days  of  confinement  Bode- 
win  was  allowed  to  spend  his  time  as  he  preferred, 
either  in  the  cabin  or  outside  in  the  woods,  close 
by.  One  day  Tony  was  missing,  and  the  next 
morning  Jim  Keesner  volunteered  that  Tony  had 
heard  from  the  camp  yesterday.  The  Eagle  Bird 
had  obtained  a  postponement  of  the  trial  for  a 
month,  — "  on  account  of  unavoidable  absence 
of  principal  witness,"  Keesner  quoted  compla 
cently.  He  then  made  Bodewin  the  offer  of  his 
liberty,  on  condition  that  he  would  swear  not  to 
testify  on  this  or  any  subsequent  trial  of  the  case 
between  the  two  mines,  and  that  he  would  keep 
the  secret  of  his  abduction.  Bodewin  smiled  at 
this  proposition. 

Keesner  admitted  that  he  had  not  expected  him 
to  accept  it,  and  advised  him  to  take  his  detention 
as  coolly  as  possible,  since  it  would  now  necessarily 
be  prolonged  until  after  the  trial. 

Keesner  protested  that  neither  he  nor  Tony  had 
anything  against  Bodewin,  unless  it  might  be 
Tony  "owed  him  one  on  that  circus  with  the 
horse."  And  further,  he  was  willing  Bodewin 


BABE.  205 

should  know  that,  "  although  they  hel'  the  cards, 
Harlcins  was  runnin'  the  game." 

While  they  were  on  the  subject  Bodewin  asked 
if  it  was  not  Harkins  who  had  planned  his  cap 
ture. 

Keesner  shut  one  eye  tight  and  fixed  the  other 
on  the  toe  of  his  uppermost  boot,  as  he  sat,  with 
his  knees  crossed,  on  the  bench  by  the  door. 

"That  there  Harkins  is  jest  murmurin'  h 

when  he  gits  started  !  He's  jest  omnivorous !  " 
He  rocked  himself  forward  on  his  crossed  arms 
and  laughed  with  deep  and  silent  enjoyment. 

"How  did  he  know  I  was  going  alone  by  the 
trail?"  Bodewin  asked. 

"  How  does  Harkins  know  anything  !  If  you'd 
V  went  the  other  way  he'd  been  fixed  for  you  just 
the  same.  How'd  he  git  your  picture  ?  " 

"What!" 

Keesner  rose  up  chuckling  and  went  into  the 
cabin,  followed  by  the  roused  look  of  inquiry  in 
Bodewin's  eyes.  He  fumbled  about  on  the  mantel 
shelf,  and  came  back  with  a  photograph,  which  he 
laid  on  Bodewin's  knee. 

"There  ye  are  !     How'd  he  git  that  ?  " 

Bodewin  stared  at  the  picture  in  gloomy  amaze 
ment.  He  had  not  seen  it  since  the  day,  fourteen 


206  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

years  ago,  when  lie  stood  by  the  white-draped 
table  in  his  sister's  room  at  home,  talking  to  her 
of  Frank  Eustis,  his  eyes  meanwhile  wandering 
absently  from  one  to  another  of  her  innocent  girl 
ish  trophies.  It  was  the  day  before  Frank  Eustis 
came,  at  his  invitation,  on  that  hapless  visit.  So 
all  these  years  of  their  separation  she  had  kept 
her  brother's  picture.  Seldom  as  she  might  have 
looked  upon  it,  there  must  have  been  some  linger 
ing  sentiment  which  had  prevented  her  from  part 
ing  with  it.  Bodewin  was  at  no  loss  to  guess 
how,  among  her  poor  belongings,  it  had  passed 
from  the  hand  of  Harkins's  lady  friend  to  Harkins 
himself,  to  be  finally  put  to  this  ingenious  use. 
Harkins  had  certainly  a  devilish  sense  of  humor. 

"  Why  did  Harkins  give  you  this,  do  you 
know?  "  Bodewin  asked  at  length. 

"So  we  wouldn't  miss  our  man,"  Keesner  re 
plied.  "  I  never  set  eyes  on  you,  and  didn't  want 
to,  beforehand,  —  see,  —  for  fear  you'd  know  me 
when  I  come  to  tackle  you  on  the  road." 

Bodewin  tore  up  the  picture,  Keesner  looking 
on  and  making  no  objection.  It  had  served  its 
purpose,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned. 

It  had  served  another  purpose.  The  picture 
had  been  sent  to  the  cabin  a  month  or  more  before 


BABE.  207 

Bode  win  himself  was  brought  there.  Babe  had 
not  seen  many  pictures  in  her  life.  She  had  never 
known  a  man's  face  like  the  one  this  picture  set 
before  her.  Poring  over  it  whenever  she  could 
have  it  to  herself  unobserved,  there  had  been  time 
enough  for  the  sowing  of  those  seeds  of  trouble 
which  were  now  maturing  fast. 

So,  while  Tony  sulked  arid  Bodewin  rested 
in  his  brief  exemption  from  responsibility,  and 
Keesner  chuckled  over  Harkins's  cleverness  and 
counted  the  wages  of  his  own  iniquity,  Babe  was 
the  common  victim. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

AMATEUR   SURGERY. 

THAT  evening  by  candle-light  in  the  cabin 
Bodewin  was  looking  over  a  collection  of  "  speci 
mens  "  which  represented  the  financial  hopes  and 
disappointments  of  the  Keesner  family  for  the 
past  two  or  three  years.  Jim  Keesner  was  try 
ing  to  get  a  professional  opinion  from  Bodewin 
regarding  a  certain  piece  of  quartz  he  had  at  that 
time  a  particular  interest  in.  It  had  been  taken 
from  one  of  Keesner's  numerous  "prospects" 
which  Harkins  had  just  bonded  for  ten  thou 
sand  dollars.  Bodewin's  safe-keeping  until  after 
the  trial  had  a  more  important  bearing  on  the  sale 
of  Keesner's  mine  than  the  value  of  the  property 
itself. 

Keesner  was  well  aware  of  this  fact ;  but  there 
was  the  bare  possibility  that  the  mine  might  be 
worth  something  like  the  amount  of  the  bond,  in 
which  case  Harkins's  bounty  on  Bodewin's  capture 

208 


AMATEUR   SURGERY.  209 

and  detention  would  not  amount  to  much  after 
all.  Highly  as  Keesner  respected  his  principal's 
ability,  he  did  not  care  to  furnish  an  illustration 
of  it  in  his  own  person.  It  was  a  privilege  to  be 
associated  in  business  with  a  man  like  Harkins ; 
nevertheless  it  was  a  privilege  one  might  at  any 
moment  be  called  upon  to  pay  dearly  for. 

Bodewin  turned  the  quartz  specimen  over  on 
his  palm  and  tried  its  weight.  In  order  to  obtain 
a  fresh  fracture  he  struck  it,  as  it  lay  on  his  open 
hand,  with  another  piece  of  stone  he  had  picked 
up  from  the  table.  As  the  quartz  fell  in  pieces, 
Babe,  who  had  been  leaning  over  Tony's  shoulder, 
looking  on  at  the  inspection  of  minerals,  drew 
back  quickly.  She  had  got  a  particle  of  the  sharp 
quartz  sand  in  her  eye. 

She  went  away  from  the  light  and  sat  apart 
with  her  hand  over  her  face,  refusing  to  have  the 
eye  looked  at.  Her  father  teased  her,  and  Tony 
bullied  her  with  various  methods  of  extracting 
the  sand.  Babe  would  have  none  of  them,  and 
finally  went  to  bed,  saying  "  it  would  work  out 
itself  before  morning." 

She  came  down  early  as  usual  next  day  and 
prepared  breakfast,  making  no  complaint.  She 
had  tied  a  bandage  over  the  injured  eye,  and  was 


210  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

evidently  suffering,  though  still  obstinate  when 
remedies  were  suggested.  After  breakfast  Tony 
went  to  the  corral  to  feed  the  horses.  Dad  Kees- 
ner  had  taken  his  favorite  seat  for  a  morning 
smoke,  on  the  corner  of  the  bench  sheltered  by  a 
hop-vine,  and  near  the  cabin  window.  He  could 
thus  enjoy  the  still  September  sunshine  and  keep 
at  the  same  time  an  eye  on  Bodewin,  who  sat 
within,  whittling,  by  the  hearth.  Babe  had 
washed  and  put  away  her  breakfast  things, 
moving  about  silently,  as  she  had  done  ever 
since  the  formidable  stranger's  arrival.  She  now 
took  down  the  broom  from  its  nail  behind  the 
door,  a  sign  that  she  wanted  the  cabin  cleared  of 
men. 

Bodewin  had  been  at  work  on  a  couple  of 
match-sticks,  whittling  them  until  each  one  was 
as  soft  and  thin  at  the  end  as  a  fine,  flat  camel's- 
hair  brush.  With  these  frivolous-looking  imple 
ments  in  his  fingers  he  approached  Babe  and  said 
gently,  but  as  if  he  expected  her  to  listen :  — 

"  I  want  to  take  that  thing  out  of  your  eye.  It 
is  time  it  was  out." 

"How  are  you  going  to  ?"  Babe  asked. 

"  Come  here  to  the  light,  and  I  will  show  you." 

As  she  hesitated,  Bodewin  took  the  broom  out 


AMATEUR   SURGERY.  211 

of  her  hands,  keeping  his  eyes  upon  her  and 
motioned  towards  the  door.  He  waited  for  her 
to  precede  him,  grave,  courteous,  but  peremptory 
as  a  physician  should  be. 

She  obeyed,  laughing  a  little  nervously,  perhaps 
at  the  novelty  of  finding  herself  obedient  to  mas 
culine  direction. 

At  his  command  she  sat  down  on  the  bench 
outside,  turning  her  face  to  the  jight. 

"  Take  off  the  bandage,  please." 

She  took  it  off  with  fingers  that  were  slightly 
tremulous.  Bode  win  gave  her  one  of  the  match- 
sticks  and  showed  her  how  to  moisten  the  whit 
tled  *  end  in  her  mouth,  until  it  was  soft  and 
pliable  as  a  feather.  Then  taking  her  head  firmly 
against  his  shoulder  he  pressed  her  shrinking  lids 
apart,  and  passed  the  slip  of  wood  under  the  lid, 
from  the  outer  to  the  inner  corner  of  the  eye. 

The  relief  was  instantaneous.  Babe's  head 
drooped.  Helpless  tears  bathed  her  cheek  where 
the  mounting  blood  was  fast  effacing  the  impress 
of  Bodewin's  fingers. 

He  did  not  look  at  her  at  once,  but  turning  to 
her  father,  showed  him  the  speck  of  quartz  on  the 
soft  end  of  the  stick  he  had  just  used. 

"  —  Hisht !  "  said  Keesner,  taking  his  pipe  from 


212  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

his  mouth.  "Tony!"  he  called,  leaning  to  look 
past  Bode  win.  uls  that  you,  Tony?  I  thought 
I  heered  a  man's  feet  goin'  round  the  house. 
Did  you  hear  him  ? "  turning  to  Bodewin. 

"Yes,  I  heard  it;  I  thought  it  was  Tony," 
Bodewin  replied. 

Keesner  listened  a  moment,  dubiously,  and  then 
resumed  his  pipe.  There  was  nothing  surprising 
in  the  silence  that  had  followed  Keesner's  call. 
Tony  rarely  condescended  to  raise  his  voice  in 
answer  to  the  paternal  summons,  but  made  his 
appearance  in  due  time  when  it  pleased  him  to 
come. 

Bodewin,  meantime,  in  whom  captivity*  had 
bred  a  habit  of  restlessness  that  was  not  natural 
to  him,  had  wandered  back  into  the  cabin,  be 
cause  he  was'  tired  of  the  porch.  He  was  sur 
prised  to  see  Babe  seated  by  the  table,  her  head 
bowed  low,  her  face  hiclde*h  on  her  crossed  arms. 
He  stopped  beside  her  and  asked  if  the  wounded 
eye  still  gave  her  pain.  She  seemed  to  repel  his 
sympathy  by  a  mute  gesture  which  left  him  still 
in  doubt  as  to  the  cause  of  her  trouble. 

"  What  is  it,  Babe  ?  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  he 
urged. 

Babe  had  never  in  her  life  listened  to  a  man's 


AMATEUR   SUKGERY.  218 

voice  like  Bodewin's,  with  sensitive  inflections, 
that  made  her  color  come  and  go,  and  a  distinc 
tive  quality  like  that  of  a  musical  instrument. 
His  low  tones  touched  her  the  more  keenly  now 
by  contrast  to  that  peremptory  manner  of  the 
physician  he  had  before  assumed.  They  thrilled 
across  her  fresh,  wild  sensibilities  as  the  tenderest 
uttered  words  might  have  done.  She  raised  her 
head  and  looked  up  at  Bodewin  without  speaking. 
Bodewin  turned  away.  He  was  impatient  of  this 
uncalled-for  show  of  feeling  in  Babe,  which 
seemed  to  threaten  complications  in  their  en 
forced  relation  to  each  other.  He  was  himself 
intensely,  often  savagely,  preoccupied  with 
thoughts  of  all  that  might  be  doing  or  done 
with  and  finished  in  that  world  of  his  own,  from 
which  he  had  been  eliminated  as  by  death.  It 
was  irritating  to  have  to  think  about  Babe  when 
he  wanted  to  think  about  himself.  He  called  it 
thinking  about  himself  when  he  dreamed  rest 
lessly,  in  the  long,  silent  hours,  of  Josephine. 
He  would  have  had  this  other  girl  come  and  go 
before  his  absent  gaze  in  her  beauty  that  was  so 
satisfying  in  its  strength  and  completeness,  and 
be  no  more  of  a  problem  than  the  sunlight  on  the 
wall. 


214  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

From  some  impulse,  perhaps  to  satisfy  himself 
that  he  had  not  been  making  too  much  of  a  mo 
mentary  impression,  he  went  back  to  where  Babe 
still  sat,  with  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands. 

"  Let  me  see  that  eye  again,"  he  said,  resuming 
the  matter-of-fact  tone  of  her  physician. 

"You  don't  need  to;  it's  all  right,"  she  pro 
tested,  shrinking  away  from  him. 

"  Let  me  see  it ! "  he  repeated,  authoritatively. 
"  It  cannot  be  all  right  if  you  have  to  keep  it  cov 
ered  like  that." 

She  let  her  hands  fall  and  submitted  to  his 
scrutiny,  but  it  was  impossible  to  meet  his  eyes, 
with  such  a  helpless  quivering  of  her  lips,  and 
the  blood  rushing  into  her  face.  She  drew  back, 
with  a  quick,  gasping  sigh,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  What  are  you  crying  about  ?  "  said  Bode  win, 
angry  with  himself,  and  with  Babe  for  making 
him  feel  both  foolish  and  cruel.  "  Are  you  crying 
because  the  speck  is  gone  ?  You  will  have  to  for 
give  me ;  I  cannot  put  it  back  again." 

During  the  rest  of  the  day  Bodewin  made  it 
easy  for  Babe  to  avoid  him,  by  keeping  outside 
of  the  cabin  himself.  At  dinner  she  did  not  sit 
at  the  table  with  the  family.  Bodewin  was  not 
surprised  at  her  absence.  He  knew  that  she  had 


AMATEUR   SURGERY.  215 

not  forgiven  him ;  moreover,  he  had  observed  that 
Babe  would  never  eat  with  him  if  she  could  help 
it,  partly  from  shyness,  partly  from  pride.     She 
was  intensely  sure  that  in  a  hundred  unknown 
ways  he  found  her  different  from  the  women  he 
was  used  to.     Not  to  exhibit  this  difference,  she 
took  pains  to  give  him  as  little  of  her  speech  and 
manners  as  possible.     She  had  got  a  step  beyond  j 
the  men  of  her  family,  who  saw  between  Bodewiii; 
and  themselves  few  differences  that  were  not  in  il 
their  own  favor. 

At  dusk  Bode  win  found  himself  alone  with 
Babe  a  moment  in  the  cabin.  Tony  sat  in  the 
doorway,  his  rifle  between  his  knees,  his  face 
turned  towards  the  copper-colored  sunset,  glow 
ing  behind  the  woods.  It  was  Tony's  watch. 
Dad  was  relaxing  himself  with  a  twilight  stroll 
outside. 

Babe  had  taken  this  opportunity  to  give  Bode- 
win  the  card  which  Hillbury  had  left  for  him. 

"Where  did  this  come  from?"  Bode  win  asked. 

"  He  told  me  to  give  it  to  you." 

"  He  ?     What,  this  man  ?  "  pointing  to  the  card. 

Babe  looked  bewildered. 

"I  don't  know.  He  was  a  dark-complexioned 
man  in  buckskin  clothes.  He  stopped  in  here  for 


216  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

some  matches.  There  wasn't  anybody  'round 
but  me.  I  found  him  standing  there  with  your  — 
with  that  picture  of  you  in  his  hand." 

"And  then — ?"  said  Bodewin,  seeing  the  whole 
situation,  and  now  painfully  interested. 

"  He  asked  me  some  questions." 

"  Do  you  remember  what  questions  ?  " 

Babe  repeated  the  questions,  falteringly,  though 
she  remembered  them  well. 

"And  you  did  not  tell  him  I  had  never  been 
to   the   cabin,  and   you   had   never   seen   me  be 
fore?" 
.     Babe  was  silent. 

"  This  is  the  worst  yet !  "  Bodewin  groaned. 

"  Tell  him  yourself  when  you  see  him  again,  if 
you're  so  'shamed  of  it ! "  Babe  whispered  passion 
ately. 

"Yes,  when  I  see  him  again,"  Bodewin  repeated. 
"When  will  that  be?" 

"  Sooner  than  you  think,  maybe." 

"The  sooner  the  better,"  he  said.  Stepping 
back  from  the  hearth,  he  trod  on  Pardner's  foot. 
The  dog  howled  dismally,  and  Babe,  with  a  look 
of  angry  reproach  at  Bodewin,  swept  the  wailing 
puppy  into  her  arms  and  carried  him  out  of 
doors. 


AMATEUR    SURGERY.  217 

When  she  had  prepared  supper,  she  set  a  single 
candle  in  a  japanned  tin  candlestick  on  the  table, 
and,  without  speaking  to  any  one,  went  out  into 
the  darkness,  leaving  the  men  to  themselves. 

"What  ails  Babe?"  Tony  asked. 

"She's  on  her  ear  about  somethin'  or  other," 
her  father  explained,  between  large  mouthfuls  of 
beans. 

"I'd  make  her  quit  her  foolishness  if  I  was 
you,"  said  Tony. 

"  Yes,  you  better  try  a  lasso  to  her ;  maybe 
you'll  fetch  her  same's  you  did  that  there  white- 
faced  hoss  o'  his'n,"  said  the  father,  winking  at 
Bodewin  and  laughing  uproariously  at  his  own 
joke. 

Bodewin  ate  his  supper  in  silence  and  went  to 
bed  early.  He  was  not  fond  of  the  "dug-out," 
but  its  cave-like  darkness  and  stillness  suited 
him  to-night  better  than  the  society  and  candle 
light  of  the  outer  room. 

Hillbury's  tacit  message  by  the  hand  of  Babe 
had  given  him  a  bad  turn.  He  could  not  have 
known  that  the  keen  eyes  of  his  friend  had 
surprised  Babe's  miserable  little  secret  in  her 
face,  and  that  the  man  of  evidence  had  for  once 
allowed  himself  to  come  to  a  conclusion  without 


218  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

waiting  for  proof,  but  without  going  this  length 
in  his  apprehensions,  there  were  reasons  enough 
iwhy  he  should  be  impatient  to  explain  himself. 
Small  effort  as  he  had  ever  made  to  gain  it, 
Bodewin  really  hungered  for  Hillbury's  cold  and 
tardy  approbation.  His  friend's  whole  attitude 
and  humor  suited  him  exquisitely  in  a  man  ;  in  a 
woman  the  effect  might  be  a  little  meagre.  A 
man  should  never  make  a  fool  of  himself,  but  a 
woman  might  do  so  very  charmingly,  on  occasion, 
with  the  right  person,  of  course. 

The  conjunction  of  ideas  was  hardly  complimen 
tary,  but  Bode  win's  next  thought  was  of  Jose 
phine.  There  comes  a  time,  no  doubt,  in  a  man's 
relations  with  an  attractive  woman,  when  he  may 
yet  decide  either  to  take  in  sail,  emotionally 
speaking,  or  square  away  before  it,  trusting  there 
may  be  no  danger  ahead.  This  time  came  to 
Bodewin  about  the  period  of  those  long  gallops 
in  the  valley,  and  pacings  homeward  through  the 
pine  woods  at  sunset.  Setting  his  estimate  of  his 
own  person,  attainments,  fortune,  and  prospects 
against  her  youth,  beauty,  and  nobleness  of  char 
acter,  he  had  decided  to  take  in  sail.  Theoreti 
cally  he  had  begun  to  do  so  before  his  abduction. 
It  might  be  questioned  how  well  he  would  have 


AMATEUR   SURGERY.  219 

succeeded  in  practice  had  he  been  left  to  complete 
his  journey  to  Denver,  and  to  return  with  the 
honors  of  chief  witness  on  the  winning  side,  to 
be  petted  by  the  Eagle  Bird  constituency.  As  it 
had  turned  out,  Bodewin  more  than  once  since/ 
his  sequestration  had  sadly  congratulated  himself 
on  this  stroke  of  fate  which  had  put  him  out  of 
temptation's  way. 

But  to-night,  in  the  general  upheaval,  reason 
could  make  no  headway  against  the  keen  and 
passionate  sense  of  loss  with  which  he  counted 
the  days  of  his  absence.  After  the  trial  the  New- 
bolds  would  probably  go  East  at  once  ;  he  might 
never  see  Josephine  again.  The  break  was  intoler 
ably  sudden.  There  were  things  he  must  say  to 
her  before  they  parted  finally.  He  must  clear 
himself  from  all  injurious,  vague  suspicions,  and 
establish  his  good  faith  in  her  eyes ;  then  perhaps 
he  might  be  able  to  give  her  up  without  this 
clamorous,  childish  pain. 

Bodewin  was  not  the  only  watcher  in  the  cabin 
that  night.  Babe  had  also  gone  early  to  bed,  but 
not  to  sleep.  She  had  taken  Bodewin's  last 
words  to  her  pillow.  "  The  sooner  the  better," 
she  repeated  to  herself.  It  should  be  soon.  It 
must  be  soon,  for  her  own  sake,  if  not  for  his. 


220  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

She  heard  her  father  talking  with  Tony  in  the 
room  below.  Their  voices  were  slightly  lowered, 
as  if  the  conversation  had  taken  a  confidential 
tone.  Babe  got  out  of  bed,  stepped  softly  across 
the  loose  boards  of  the  floor  to  the  open  ladder- 
hole,  and  laid  herself  down  beside  it.  She  had 
come  to  a  bitter,  costly  resolve  with  regard  to 
Bodewin,  but  to  carry  it  out  she  must  learn  all 
she  could  of  her  father's  intentions  towards  his 
prisoner. 

Tony  was  speaking  now.  "  Say,  do  you  know 
what  the  talk  is  down  to  camp  ?  " 

"  What  do  I  know  about  camp ! "  Dad  crossly 
rejoined.  "  Hain't  seen  so  much  as  the  sign  on  a 
gin-mill  for  six  months." 

"  There's  a  heap  of  talk  about  him.  They  'low 
down  there  he  never  would  'a'  started  if  it  hadn't 
'a'  been  for  Newbold's  daughter." 

"  Say  Newbold's  coin,  and  you'll  be  talkin V 

"  Same  thing  "  —  it  was  Tony  who  spoke  again. 
"Newbold  gits  his  case,  and  he  gits  the  girl,  and 
the  coin  too.  That's  what  they're  talkin'  down 
below." 

"  Thought  you  said  'twas  ginerally  'lowed  he'd 
lit  out  by  himself,  on  purpose  ?  " 

"That's  Sammis's  racket.      Sammis  makes  him- 


AMATEUR   SURGERY.  221 

self  a  heap  of  importance  'bout  now.  He  knowed 
it  all  beforehand.  He  told  'em  just  how  'twould 
be!" 

"  Well,  it  don't  look  onlikely,"  said  Dad,  slowly. 

"What  don't?" 

"  That  there  story  'bout  the  girl." 

"  Guess  you'd  think  so  if  you  was  to  see  her 
once ! " 

"  Where'd  you  ever  see  her  ?  " 

Babe  could  not  see  the  men,  as  they  crouched 
forward  over  the  fire,  but  by  their  shadows 
thrown  on  the  opposite  wall  she  could  guess  at 
Tony's  attitude. 

"I  looked  at  her,"  he  said,  leaning  towards 
his  father,  without  taking  his  elbows  off  his 
knees,  "straight  as  I'm  lookin'  at  you  now,  for 
much  as  half  an  hour  up  here  on  Mike's  claim. 
I  could  tell  you  her  p'ints  like  I  could  Babe's 
here." 

"  She's  got  p'ints,  eh?" 

Tony  nodded  his  head,  and  his  giant  double  on 
the  wall  repeated  the  action  impressively. 

"What  age  'bout?  "  Dad  asked. 

"  'Bout  Babe's  age  —  little  older,  maybe.  She's 
a  different  color  to  Babe.  Black  eyes,  and  eye 
brows  like  a  streak  o'  charcoal." 


222  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"  Sho,  I  bet  she  can't  hold  half  a  candle  to  our 
Babe !  " 

"  I  bet  she  can  hold  two  —  ask  Bod'in  !  " 

"Durn'd  if  it  ain't  a  reg'lar  circus!"  Dad 
laughed  his  low-bred,  cunning  laugh  and  slapped 
his  knees. 

"  Can't  ye  make  a  little  more  noise  ? "  Tony 
whispered  savagely. 

"  Say,  Tony !  "  —  Keesner  gave  his  son  a  shove 
with  his  elbow,  —  "  was  he  'long  of  her  up  there 
on  the  Mike?" 

"  They  was  jawin'  together,  I  tell  you,  the 
whole  durned  time.  Him  a-layin'  on  his  elbow 
lookiii'  at  her,  and  her  face  as  red  as  that  coal." 

"  No  !     'Twas  the  sun  likely." 

"  I  tell  you,  he's  dead  gone  on  her.  It's  all  the 
talk  down  to  camp.  She  put  him  up  to  testifyin'. 
Harkins  must  V  had  that  in  his  head  when  he 
told  us  to  say  she  sent  the  papers." 

"That  there  Harkins  is  a  reg'lar  coon,"  said 
Dad,  with  feeling. 

"It's  going  to  be  a  tough  pull  on  him,  hidin' 
out  here  for  a  month.  He'll  feel  mighty  ugly 
when  he  gits  loose,"  said  Tony. 

"Harkins  has  got  to  settle  that  bill,"  Dad  re 
plied.  "  'Tain't  none  of  my  funeral !  " 


AMATEUR   SURGERY.  223 

"  You'll  see  'fore  we  git  through  whose  funeral 
it  will  be." 

Babe  had  writhed  herself  over,  prone  on  the 
floor,  in  the  darkness.  She  had  no  words,  no 
thoughts.  She  seemed  made  of  one  great  agony. 
Nothing  was  clear  to  her  but  the  image  of  Bode- 
win,  his  attitude,  his  eyes.  She  could  feel  them 
resting  upon  her  face  as  if  she  had  been  that 
other  girl  whom  he  was  longing  to  see. 

She  understood  all  now,  as  one  sufferer  knows 
another's  pain  —  his  restless  days,  his  days  of 
moody  silence.  The  dull,  beseeching  pain  in  his 
eyes  meant  no  want  of  his  that  she  could  satisfy. 

Towards  morning  she  got  up  from  the  floor 
and  threw  herself  on  her  bed.  From  complete 
weariness  she  lost  herself,  and  slept  heavily  until 
awakened  by  her  father  calling  and  shaking  the 
ladder  below. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

ANOTHER   OBLIGATION. 

THE  days  of  Bodewin's  captivity  were  spent  in 
eating  and  sleeping,  training  the  setter-pup,  argu 
ing  with  Dad,  ignoring  Tony,  and,  over  and  above 
his  own  private  fund  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancy, 
wondering  what  could  be  the  matter  with  Babe. 
At  times,  as  on  the  day  he  had  treated  the  wound 
ed  eye,  he  had  fancied  he  knew  what  the  nature 
of  her  trouble  was ;  but  the  supposition  involved 
such  gross  and  fatuous  vanity  on  his  part,  that  he 
preferred  to  reject  it,  even  in  the  face  of  symp 
toms  difficult  to  account  for  on  any  other  hypoth 
esis. 

To  keep  on  the  safe  side,  however,  he  now  spent 
his  days  almost  entirely  out  of  doors. 

He  had  found  some  amusement  in  the  making 
of  a  rude  sun-dial  on  the  top  of  a  pine-stump  that 
had  been  sawed  a  few  feet  from  the  ground.  On 
its  tablet  of  shaded  amber-colored  rings  he  had 

224 


ANOTHER   OBLIGATION.  225 

inscribed  the  hours  in  a  circle.  He  was  now  at 
work  on  an  appropriate  motto,  which  was  to  form 
a  lesser  circle,  inclosing  the  dial-plate.  He  had 
first  read  it  carved  on  a  stone  dial  that  had 
counted  the  sunny  hours  in  an  old  mission  garden 
of  lower  California.  A  passion-vine  had  wound 
itself  about  the  broken  column,  and  fragrantly 
closed  the  record.  Bodewin  had  parted  its  sprays, 
heavy  with  purple  blossoms,  to  read  the  words : 

"  Coma  la  sombra,  haya  la  hora." 
( As  the  shadow,  flies  the  hour. ) 

Many  a  time  since,  in  times  of  waiting  or  on  soli 
tary  journeys,  they  had  found  their  way  back  to 
his  thoughts  and  left  with  him  their  echo  of  home 
sickness. 

Bodewin  was  cutting  the  last  letters  of  this  in 
scription  one  day,  when  Babe,  on  her  way  to  the 
well,  stopped  and  watched  him  at  his  work,  and 
lingered  still,  with  nothing  to  say,  yet  as  if  she 
wished  to  say  something.  After  waiting  for  her 
to  speak,  Bodewin  asked  rather  sentimentally  — 
"  You  will  look  at  my  clock  in  the  forest,  some 
times,  when  I  am  gone,  Babe  ?  " 

He  found  it  difficult  to  avoid  a  half-caressing, 
half-condescending  tone  in  talking  to  her.  She 
made  him  think  of  those  women  in  Genesis,  with 


226  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

perfect  bodies,  and  souls  whose  history  went  not 
back  beyond  a  few  generations. 

"  You  want  to  leave  yere  mighty  bad,  don't 
you?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice,  without  looking 
at  him  or  replying  to  his  speech  about  the  clock. 

"I  want  to  get  away,  of  course,"  Bodewin 
answered  indifferently,  and  on  his  guard  at  once. 

"  I've  been  studyin'  'bout  a  way  to  help  you 
off.  I  can't  talk  now,  —  after  supper  maybe,  out 
side." 

After  supper  Bodewin  lit  his  pipe,  and  strolled 
out  of  the  cabin,  attended  by  the  familiar  con 
sciousness  that  he  was  watched  by  one  or  both  of 
his  keepers.  It  was  Dad's  watch  to-night.  Dad 
was  more  cunningly  vigilant  than  Tony.  He  had 
an  air  of  abstraction  when  on  duty  that  made  his 
society  less  of  a  restraint  on  the  movements  of  his 
prisoner.  It  was  thus  he  kept  en  rapport  with 
Bodewin's  varying  mood  under  the  pressure  of  his 
long  waiting.  When  her  evening  work  was  done, 
Babe  came  out  and  sat  a  little  way  off  from  Bode 
win  on  the  bench.  Dad  smoked,  and  paced  slowly 
up  and  down  the  cleared  space  in  front  of  the 
cabin.  As  it  grew  dusk,  only  the  red  spark  of  his 
pipe  showed  where  he  moved  against  the  gloom  of 
the  trees,  and  the  figures  of  the  two  who  sat  on 


ANOTHER   OBLIGATION.  227 

the  bench  blended  with  the  shadow  of  the  low 
projecting  roof.  Tony  was  sleeping  heavily  and 
audibly  on  the  floor  of  the  cabin.  From  time  to 
time,  in  his  walk,  Dad  paused  opposite  the  open 
door,  and  listened  with  disgust  to  the  sleeper's 
breathing,  muttering  to  himself  the  reproof  he 
was  rehearsing  for  his  benefit.  Tony  was  getting 
slack  about  his  share  of  the  work  in  hand,  and 
showing,  besides,  an  inclination  to  resume  his 
habit  of  drinking.  Dad  had  unpleasant  suspicions 
as  to  the  cause  of  this  early  and  profound  nap. 

This  was  Babe's  opportunity.  Speaking  low, 
and  with  thickening  heart-beats,  she  confided  to 
Bode  win  her  plan  for  his  escape.  The  possibility 
that  he  might  hesitate  to  avail  himself  of  it  had 
not  once  occurred  to  her. 

"Thank  you,  Babe,"  he  said.  "It  is  very  sweet 
of  you  to  want  to  help  me ;  but  I  am  not  going, 
you  know." 

"  You  ain't  a-going  ?     Don't  you  want  to  go  ?  " 

"Not  in  that  way." 

Pie  heard  her  stir  softly  beside  him,  as  if  she 
sighed. 

"I  been  a-studyin',  but  I  can't  think  of  any 
other  way." 

"  Never  mind,  Babe ;  it's  awfully  good  of  you," 


228  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

he  said,  in  that  caressing  tone  which  was  a  fatality 
of  his  talk  with  Babe.  "I'll  have  to  see  it 
through,  if  you  can  stand  having  me  around." 

Babe  moved  again  restlessly  beside  him.  Hope 
was  stirring  in  her  heart,  telling  her  that  perhaps 
he  was  not  so  eager  to  get  away  after  all. 

"It  is  a  great  temptation,"  he  said  at  last. 
"Have  you  thought  what  you  will  say  to  your 
father  when  he  questions  you  to-morrow?" 

"I  ain't  afraid  of  Dad.  You  can  believe  me,  it 
will  be  worse  for  me  if  you  keep  on  stayin'  here." 

"I  thought  we  were  getting  to  be  such  good 
friends,  Babe." 

Babe  was  silent  a  moment.  He  thought  she 
was  not  going  to  answer,  when  she  said,  with  an 
effort  at  lightness,  "  You  know  you  don't  care  for 
me,  only  to  fool  with  me." 

"  I  care  for  any  girl  too  much  to  fool  with  her. 
It  was  only  on  your  account  I  hesitated.  Heaven 
knows  I  want  to  get  away  badly  enough.  If  you 
understand  the  risk  you  are  taking,  and  are  wil 
ling  to  take  it  for  me  —  " 

"  I  take  it  for  myself,"  said  Babe  proudly.  "  It 
suits  me  to  have  you  go  as  well  as  it  suits  you  to 
go.  You  can  go  to-night,  if  you've  a  mind  to 
keep  awake.  When  you  hear  me  stirrin'  'round 


ANOTHER    OBLIGATION.  229 

overhead,  climb  up  the  logs  to  a  hole  in  the  floor 
where  you'll  see  a  light  —  " 

She  was  interrupted  by  Dad's  approach.  The 
old  man  sauntered  towards  them  out  of  the  twi 
light,  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  against  a 
post  of  the  porch,  and  set  his  heavy  foot  upon  the 
boards. 

"  Git  in,  git  in  !  "  he  said.  "  Night's  yere,  and 
mornin's  comin'." 

Tony  was  still  sleeping  by  the  fire.  Bodewin 
had  gone  to  bed,  and  Babe  was  stooping  over  the 
coals  on  the  hearth  to  light  her  candle,  when  her 
father  signed  to  her  to  draw  near.  He  looked  at 
her  fixedly  a  moment  as  she  stood  before  him,  the 
unlit  candle  in  her  hand. 

"  'Pears  to  me  you  and  him's  gittin'  mighty  good 
friends,"  he  said,  with  a  gesture  of  his  head 
towards  the  door  of  Bodewin's  room. 

Babe  winced;   but  she  faced  him  desperately. 

"  If  you  don't  want  us  to  be  friends,  what  you 
keepin'  him  here  for?  "  she  said. 

"  That's  my  business.  Your  business  is  to  look 
out  for  yourself.  I  don't  want  no  gal's  foolishness 
'round  yere.  You  hear  me  ?  " 

The  girl  flushed  and  then  turned  white. 

"Dad,"    she    almost    whispered,   meeting    her 


230  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

father's  eyes  shrinkingly,  "send  him  away.  He 
don't  ought  to  be  yere.  I  can't  bear  the  sight  of 
him." 

"  It  looks  like  you  can't  bear  the  sight  of  him  ! 
It  looks  a  heap  like  it ! "  Dad  wagged  his  head 
sarcastically.  "Now  look  yere,  —  I'll  tell  you 
somethin'  you  don't  want  to  forgit.  He's  got 
his  eye  on  a  different  piece  of  goods  to  what 
you  be." 

Babe  did  not  take  her  eyes  from  her  father's 
face  while  he  was  speaking.  She  was  trembling, 
and  there  was  a  strange,  set  smile  about  her 
mouth. 

"  You  make  me  feel  like  I  wish  I  was  dead,"  she 
said,  heavily.  She  moved  a  step  backwards,  and 
her  eyes  fell.  Something  seemed  to  break  up 
within  her ;  tears  came,  and  hard,  choking  sobs. 

Her  father  still  eyed  her  sternly,  without  any 
movement  of  relenting  towards  her ;  but  she  found 
her  way  into  his  arms,  and  clung  to  him,  rubbing 
her  face  against  his,  humbly. 

"There,  there,"  said  Dad,  soothingly,  "don't 
talk  no  more  foolishness." 

Babe  lifted  her  head. 

"It  ain't  foolishness.  Oh,  you'll  see!  All  of 
Harkins's  mines  and  all  his  money  won't  pay  you 


ANOTHER    OBLIGATION.  281 

for  the  trouble  lie's  makin'  here.  No ;  not  if  you 
love  your  poor  old  Babe  !  " 

She  sobbed,  holding  him  by  the  shoulders,  and 
fairly  rocking  his  sturdy  bulk  in  the  strength  of 
her  despair. 

"  Girl,"  Keesner  said,  holding  her  off  from  him 
to  give  his  severity  its  full  effect,  "  you're  talkin' 
mighty  queer.  You're  gittin'  simple.  Now,  you 
hear  me;  that  man  stops  yere,  you  understand? 
It  suits  me  to  have  him.  If  you're  so  durned 
skeered  of  his  company  I  can  put  you  where  you'll 
have  a  chance  to  git  used  to  men." 

Babe  wrenched  herself  out  of  his  grasp. 

"  Father !  "  she  cried,  in  a  low,  wild  voice. 

"  Don't  you  come  a-fatherin'  me  !  "  Keesner  in 
terrupted,  nodding  his  big  head  at  her.  "  You  git 
to  bed  and  salt  down  what  I  been  savin'  to  you." 

When  Babe  had  gone  to  her  room  Keesner  filled 
another  pipe  and  smoked  it  tranquilly,  satisfied 
that  he  had  done  a  parent's  duty,  and  more  than 
satisfied  with  the  situation,  as  he  regarded  it, 
between  Bodewin  and  his  daughter.  Nothing 
would  have  suited  Keesner  better  than  for  Bode 
win  to  "take  a  hankerin'  after  our  Babe."  He 
was  willing  to  use  his  daughter,  but  not  to  sacri 
fice  her.  It  was  not  in  Keesner's  scheme  that 


232  JOHN  BODEWIN 's  TESTIMONY. 

Babe  should  suffer  any  but  that  intangible  harm 
which  would  wear  out  with  a  few  girlish  tears  and 
reproaches.  He  had  gone  a  little  too  far,  perhaps, 
when  he  had  threatened  to  send  her  down  to  her 
Aunt  Matild',  whose  husband  kept  a  billiard  and 
drinking  saloon  in  the  camp.  Babe  must  have 
known  that  that  was  all  a  joke.  He  stirred  up 
Tony  with  his  foot  and  made  him  spread  down  the 
camp  blankets  and  fetch  in  more  wood,  growling 
like  a  Caliban,  while  he  himself  covered  the  fire 
and  bolted  the  outer  door. 

About  one  o'clock  Bodewin,  lying  awake  and 
dressed  on  his  bed,  heard  cautious  footsteps  and 
movements  overhead.  When  all  was  quiet  again, 
he  rose,  and,  groping  his  way  to  the  corner  of  the 
room,  climbed  up  the  logs  and  crawled  through  an 
opening  in  the  floor  above,  where  two  loose  boards 
had  been  removed.  He  found  himself  close  under 
the  rafters  of  the  garret,  and  across  the  wide,  low- 
eaved  chamber  he  saw  through  a  square  window 
in  the  gable  the  moonlight  on  the  trees  outside. 
It  was  a  window  of  but  one  sash,  which  had  been 
taken  out.  Bodewin  stumbled  against  it  in  reach 
ing  the  window.  He  heard  the  stir  of  the  night 
breeze,  and  felt  its  soft  suspiration  on  his  face. 
Somewhere  in  the  shadowy  room  Babe  was  lying, 


ANOTHER   OBLIGATION.  233 

breathlessly  waiting  for  him  to  be  gone.  He  dared 
not  speak  to  her.  He  looked  once  toward  the 
white  outline  of  her  bed,  and  with  a  mute  "  God 
bless  her  "  turned  his  face  to  the  night  and  liberty. 
The  descent  from  the  window  to  the  ground,  seven 
feet  below,  was  easily  made.  Moonlight  nights 
had  come  again.  The  last  one,  he  remembered 
most  vividly,  was  when  at  Josephine's  side  he  had 
walked  his  horse  through  the  lights  and  shadows 
of  the  forest  trail  on  their  homeward  ride  from  the 
lake.  The  moon  was  setting  behind  the  low 
hooded  cabin  which  sat  with  its  shadow  at  its  feet. 
In  one  of  the  bright  spots  of  moonlight,  between 
the  cabin  and  the  trees,  Bodewin  was  startled  to 
see  a  woman's  figure  standing  as  if  waiting  for 
him.  Raising  her  hand  with  a  gesture  of  silence, 
she  came  towards  him,  and  he  saw  that  it  was 
Babe.  She  had  a  shawl  over  her  head,  which 
partly  concealed  her  face.  Bodewin  protested 
against  this  needless  risk  on  her  part. 

"  Your  horse  is  saddled  ready  here  at  the  cor 
ral,"  she  said,  without  heeding  his  remonstrance. 

Again  he  insisted  that  she  was  doing  too  much 
for  him. 

"  The  critters  know  me,  and  you  couldn't  find 
the  gear,"  she  said. 


234  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"Which  horse  have  you  given  me?  ' 

"  The  black  one  ;  he  ain't  known  yerabouts." 

"  That  was  a  good  thought,"  said  Bodewin. 
"  I'll  see  that  he  gets  back.  Good-bye,  Babe." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  She  made  no  movement 
to  take  it. 

"  You've  got  to  promise  me  something  before 
you  go,"  she  said.  Her  manner  was  dull  and 
quiet,  as  it  had  been  for  days  past. 

"  I'll  make  you  any  promise  in  the  world  that  I 
can  honestly  keep,"  Bodewin  said. 

"  This  here  is  between  you  and  Harkins,  ain't 
it  ?  You  won't  make  Dad  pay  for  it  ?  " 

"I  will  swear  to  you,  Babe,  that  I  will  take  no 
revenge  011  any  one  in  this  house." 

"  Nor  give  us  away  by  name  ?  " 

"  Your  name  shall  never  pass  my  lips,  so  help 
me  God." 

After  a  pause  she  added,  "  Nor  my  father's,  nor 
Tony's?" 

"  You  may  trust  me.  I  will  be  silent  for  your 
sake,  remember  —  for  what  you  are  doing  for  me 
to-night." 

"  I  ain't  a-doin'  it  for  you,"  she  murmured, 
doggedly,  half  to  herself. 

"I  may  have  to  explain,"  Bodewin  continued, 


ANOTHER    OBLIGATION.  235 

"  that  I  was  detained  by  force.  I  must  do  that  to 
clear  myself  from  ugly  suspicions  about  my  ab 
sence,  you  understand?" 

"It  makes  no  odds  to  me  what  you  say,  so's 
you  don't  name  us  to  no  one,  nor  tell  where  you 
was  kep'." 

"  It  shall  be  so.  Now  run  in,  quick.  God  bless 
you." 

She  said  nothing,  but  dropped  her  head  an  in 
stant  against  the  horse's  neck.  Bodewin  thought 
she  kissed  it.  When  she  had  turned  away,  he 
mounted  and  rode  on  slowly,  looking  back 
and  only  half  satisfied  to  go,  while  Babe  still 
stood  where  he  had  left  her,  with  her  head 
down. 

She  stood  there  listening  until  the  last  light 
hoof-tread  had  died  away.  She  then  walked 
slowly  around  the  cabin  to  the  mound  behind  it, 
where  the  platform  of  boards  glistened  frosty  in 
the  moonlight.  Behind  the  cabin  no  one,  looking 
out  by  chance,  could  see  her  if  she  sat  awhile  and 
tried  to  realize  what  it  was  she  had  done.  How 
would  it  be  when  her  father  came  to  question  her 
as  to  Bodewin's  escape  ? 

The  garret  floor,  once  the  boards  were  laid  back 
in  their  places,  would  tell  no  tales,  but  a  young 


236 

girl's  countenance  is  not  so  safe  a  shield  to  put 
before  a  secret.  Her  heart  sank  at  the  thought 
of  her  father's  eyes  resting  on  her  face,  as  they 
had  the  night  before,  when  he  had  scourged  her 
to  bed  with  his  brutal  words.  The  threat,  more 
over,  with  which  he  had  dismissed  her  that  night 
haunted  her  with  a  dread  worse  than  that  of  any 
imaginable  death.  It  was  an  overmastering  fear, 
which  made  the  night  and  the  forest  seem  like 
home  to  her,  by  comparison  with  the  house  where 
her  father  and  her  brother  lay  asleep.  Where 
should  she  go,  along  that  pathway,  wide  as  the 
gate  and  easy  as  the  way  of  all  desperate  jour 
neys?  She  tried  her  feet  upon  it,  as  it  were. 
They  did  not  refuse  to  obey  her.  She  walked 
on,  hardly  aware  how  far  she  had  gone  on 
the  blind  forest  track  Bodewiri  had  taken  before 
her. 

On  a  sudden  a  thought  she  had  dwelt  on  often 
before  asserted  itself  in  the  dull  confusion  of  her 
mind.  She  would  see  the  face  of  that  other  girl 
—  the  dark-eyed,  the  chosen  one.  Perhaps  she 
might  have  sight  of  their  happiness  together. 
After  that,  whatever  came  to  her,  it  would  be  easy 
to  bear. 

The  resolve  nerved  her  with  sudden  strength. 


ANOTHER   OBLIGATION.  237 

She  walked  on  fast,  with  long,  soundless  steps. 
Her  head  felt  clear.  Her  journey  had  now  an 
object.  By  daybreak  she  would  be  on  the  edge 
of  the  forest ;  and  then,  by  the  nearest  and  lone 
liest  trail,  she  would  find  her  way  to  the  Eagle 
Bird  mine. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

THE  PRICE   OF   BODEWIN's   LIBERTY. 

IT  was  evening  of  the  day  of  Bodewin's  return. 
All  that  afternoon  in  Mr.  Craig's  office  lie  had 
been  in  earnest  consultation  with  Mr.  Newbold 
and  his  lawyer  concerning  the  part  he  was  to  bear 
in  the  coming  trial.  The  consultation  had  warmed 
into  a  discussion  which  was  now  closing  with  some 
excitement  on  the  part  of  both  lawyer  and  client. 
Bode  win  was  quiet  and  evidently  depressed,  but 
in  a  new  and  unexpected  direction  he  was,  as 
Craig  would  have  expressed  it,  as  freaky  and 
mulish  as  ever.  Mr.  Craig  felt  entitled,  in  his 
professional  capacity,  to  his  witness's  full  confi 
dence.  Bodewin,  on  the  contrary,  declined  to 
give  any  explanation  of  his  late  disappearance, 
beyond  the  fact  that  he  had  been  captured  on  the 
road  and  forcibly  detained.  He  carried  his  reti 
cence  to  the  point  of  making  it  a  condition  of  his 
voluntary  presence  at  the  trial,  that  he  should  not 

238 


THE  PRICE  OF  BODEWIN'S  LIBERTY.  239 

be  questioned  as  to  the  place  where  he  had  been 
kept  a  prisoner,  or  the  authors  of  his  detention. 
All  this  mystery  was  excessively  irritating  to  Mr. 
Craig. 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  don't  know  what  points  to 
bring  out  and  what  to  leave  alone  ?  "  he  asked 
impatiently.  "  Tell  me  the  whole  story,  and  I 
will  know  then  what  questions  to  ask  you." 

"  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  tell  the  whole  story  to 
you,  Craig,  or  to  any  one  else,"  Bodewin  replied. 
He  hated  to  have  to  explain  himself  to  Craig, 
whose  unfortunate  manner  always  made  Bodewin 
forget  that  gentleman's  numerous  good  and  useful 
qualities,  but  it  was  the  only  alternative  to  a  pro 
longed  agitation  of  the  subject  of  his  testimony. 
"  You  will  have  to  forego  the  sensation  my  little 
adventure  might  make  in  court.  I  was  not  set  at 
liberty  ;  I  got  off  in  the  night  —  but  not  without 
help.  I  don't  choose  that  the  first  use  I  make  of 
my  freedom  shall  be  to  retaliate  even  indirectly 
upon  those  who  helped  me  to  it.  Harkins  was  at 
the  bottom  of  the  whole  thing,  and  we  will  beat 
him  at  his  own  game.  It  would  be  childish  now 
to  try  to  revenge  ourselves  for  what  is  past,  on 
those  who  are  merely  his  tools.  This  little  epi 
sode  of  my  capture  has  no  bearing  on  the  case 


240  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

beyond  its  showing  to  what  lengths  Harkins  will 
go  and  what  risks  he  will  take  to  make  his  point. 
But  you  would  be  giving  yourself  superfluous 
trouble  to  show  up  Harkins.  He  is  well  enough 
known,  and  so  far  from  prejudicing  a  jury  against 
him,  in  my  opinion,  such  a  jury  as  you  will  be 
likely  to  get  would  be  immensely  amused  by  the 
whole  thing,  and  look  at  it  only  as  another  daring 
proof  of  his  cleverness.  My  relations  with  Har 
kins  are  getting  somewhat  complicated,  I'll  admit, 
but  they  are  after  all  my  own  affair.  If  you 
meddle  with  them  in  court,  Craig,  let  me  tell  you, 
you'll  be  sorry  for  it." 

"  Confound  it,  Bodewin,  this  is  the  second  time 
you  have  intimated  that  you  know  my  business 
better  than  I  do  myself.  Perhaps  you  would  like 
to  be  witness  and  counsel  both." 

Bodewin  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  his 
hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  and  studied  the  lacing 
of  his  shoes  in  silence.  Mr.  Newbold  interposed 
with  the  assurance  that  he,  for  his  part,  admired 
Bodewin's  magnanimity  towards  his  enemies,  and 
would  be  the  last  one  to  try  to  overcome  his  scru 
pulousness. 

"  They  are  not  my  enemies,"  Bodewin  said. 

"Are  they  your  friends?"  Craig  retorted. 


THE  PRICE  OF  BODEWIN'S  LIBERTY.  241 

"  Come,  now,  Craig,"  said  Mr.  Newbold.  "  You 
shall  not  badger  your  own  witness.  Keep  that 
tone  for  the  Uinta  men.  If  Mr.  Bodewin  is  as 
true  to  us  as  he  is  generous  to  those  fellows  who 
plotted  his  abduction,  we'll  have  no  fault  to  find 
with  him." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Newbold,  but  you  give  me 
too  much  credit,"  said  Bodewin,  coldly.  "  The 
person  or  persons  concerned  in  my  escape  had 
nothing  to  do  with  my  capture.  As  for  my  truth  I 
to  you,  sir,  that  means  simply  my  truth  to  the 
truth  itself,  in  so  far  as  your  case  represents  it.  It 
means  that,  or  else  it  means  that  I  am  a  fool,"  he 
added,  bitterly. 

Mr.  Craig  glanced  at  his  client,  as  if  to  say,  You 
see  what  an  uncomfortable  fellow  he  is,  take  him 
any  way  you  like. 

Bodewin  rose  and  took  up  his  hat.  He  was 
conscious  that  he  had  been  provoked  into  say 
ing  several  extremely  foolish  things,  and  was 
anxious  to  make  his  retreat  before  he  said  any 
more. 

"  I  shall  stay  up  at  the  mine  to-night,  if  Mrs. 
Sammis  can  give  me  a  bed,"  he  said,  addressing 
himself  to  Mr.  Newbold ;  and  mentally  he  resolved 
that  he  would  remain  there  until  the  camp  had 


242  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

done  asking  questions  and  talking  about  him. 
Something  new  would  turn  up  in  a  day  or  two  — 
a  suicide,  or  a  street  fight,  or  a  stage  robbery,  or  a 
rich  strike  of  mineral  —  to  divert  the  public  inter 
est  from  his  own  affairs. 

In  the  meantime  he  could  get  a  better  grasp 
over  his  feelings  towards  Josephine.  It  was  but 
a  month  he  had  been  missed  from  the  little  stage 
of  the  camp,  yet  the  parts  might  be  all  changed. 
Hillbury  and  Josephine  were  perhaps  even  now 
riding  homewards  in  the  sunset  glow,  after  a  long 
gallop  in  the  valley,  as  he  and  Josephine  had 
ridden  a  month  ago.  The  explanation  he  had 
longed  to  make  his  friend,  as  to  the  photograph 
*and  the  cabin,  was  now  impossible  through  his 
promise  to  Babe  the  night  of  his  escape.  His 
appearance  on  the  witness-stand  with  Craig  as  a 
questioner  was  seriously  complicated  by  it. 

Why  under  the  heavens  had  he  accepted  Babe's 
help?  Was  he  such  a  fool  as  to  have  forgotten 
that  a  man  cannot  take  favors  from  a  woman  who 
is  fond  of  him  unless  he  returns  her  fondness?  Is 
even  a  month's  captivity  enough  to  soften  a  man's 
brains  as  well  as  his  muscles?  Dad  and  Tony's 
rifles  no  longer  restrained  his  movements,  but  he 
was  not  a  free  man.  His  promise  was  scarcely 


THE  PRICE  OF  BODEWIN'S  LIBERTY.  243 

twenty-four  hours  old,  yet  already  he  hated  it 
worse  than  he  had  hated  his  obligation  to  Har- 
kins.  For  it  was  a  promise  to  a  woman,  and  a 
woman  whose  circumstances,  compared  with  his 
own,  made  her  peculiarly  helpless.  Harkins 
could  "  get  even "  with  him  for  the  slighted 
obligation,  in  his  own  way ;  but  Babe  could  take 
no  reprisals.  These  thoughts  were  passing  through 
his  mind  while  Mr.  Newbold  was  saying,  "  We 
shall  be  most  happy  to  have  you,  my  dear  fellow ; 
we'll  ride  up  together  if  you  like." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Bodewin. 

"  I  say,  we'll  ride  up  to  the  mine  together,  if 
you've  no  objection,"  Mr.  Newbold  repeated. 

"Are  you  stajdng  at  the  mine?"  Bodewin  asked, 
in  surprise  and  some  confusion. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Newbold.  "We  have  given 
up  our  rooms  at  the  Wiltsie.  Josephine  disliked 
the  restaurant,  and  she  insists  that  the  Sammises 
need  the  price  of  our  board,  especially  as  Sammis 
will  probably  have  to  resign.  He  can't  stay,  of 
course,  if  the  mine  goes  into  Harkins's  hand, 
though  I  have  suspected  that  lately  he  has  been 
hedging  a  little;  and  if  we  get  our  case  —  thanks 
to  you  —  I  shall  want  a  different  man  .  alto 
gether." 


244  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

Mr.  Newbold  and  Bodewin  had  left  the  lawyer's 
office  and  were  now  riding  slowly  up  the  street. 

"  I  haven't  seen  Hillbury  yet,"  Bodewin  said. 
"  He  must  have  got  into  his  new  quarters  by  this 
time  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes  —  so  he  has,"  said  Mr.  Newbold, 
vaguely.  "  I  believe  Mr.  Hillbury  did  say  some 
thing  about  his  rock  specimens  the  other  evening. 
He  asked  us  to  come  down  and  look  at  them  now 
he  has  them  all  boxed  and  arranged." 

"How  is  Hillbury?"  asked  Bodewin. 

"  Oh,  he's  all  right,  I  guess.  We  haven't  seen 
much  of  him.  He  came  up  to  the  mine  once  or 
twice :  but  to  tell  you  the  truth,  my  dear  fellow, 
we  have  been  a  house  of  mourning  since  you  were 
spirited  away.  My  daughter  has  been  —  well  — 
she's  been  a  little  absurd  about  it,  I  tell  her.  She 
seemed  to  feel  that  we  were  somehow  accountable 
for  your  fate,  because  it  was  on  our  side  you  were 
going  to  testify.  I  couldn't  feel  that  way  myself, 
but  then  women  will  think  of  more  ingeniously 
disagreeable  things  once  they  get  low  in  their 
minds — .  Josephine  is  a  terrible  hand  to  worry 
if  she  thinks  she,  or  any  of  her  family,  for  that 
matter,  is  to  blame  about  anything,"  said  Mr. 
Newbold,  feelingly. 


THE  PKICB  OF  BODEWIN'S  LIBERTY.  245 

This  phase  of  Josephine's  melancholy  was  less 
sweet  to  Bodewin  than  her  sorrow  would  have 
been,  undiluted  with  self-blame,  but  it  was  enough 
to  set  his  heart  at  rest,  so  far  as  Hillbury  was  con 
cerned. 

As  they  passed  a  quiet  corner  near  the  assay 
office,  Bodewin  saw  Hillbury  himself  standing  in 
the  door  of  the  office.  At  the  sight  of  his 
friend's  face  and  characteristic  pose,  guarded  and 
dignified  even  in  its  unconsciousness,  a  tender, 
half-humorous  enjoyment  of  him  swelled  in  Bode- 
win's  heart.  It  gave  him  a  certain  surprise  to 
find  how  fond  he  was  of  Hillbury.  His  desire 
of  the  moment  was  to  jump  off  his  horse  and 
seize  upon  Hillbury  and  assure  him,  "It  is  all 
right  about  the  cabin,  all  right  about  the  pho 
tograph,  all  right  about  everything;  I  cannot 
explain,  but  you  must  have  faith  in  me,  old 
fellow,  as  I  would  have  in  you  if  things  looked 
queer." 

"  Hullo,  here  is  Hillbury !  "  he  called  out  joy 
ously.  "  I'll  catch  up  with  you  on  the  next 
block,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Newbold,  and  turned  his 
horse's  head  sharply  towards  the  sidewalk.  Hill- 
bury 's  eyes  kindled  at  sight  of  Bode  win's  face, 
and  then  grew  stern. 


246 

"  How  are  you,  old  man  ?  "  said  Bodewin,  reach 
ing  a  hand  to  him  from  his  saddle.  "  You  don't 
look  as  if  you  had  mourned  for  me  much." 

Hillbury's  hands  were  in  the  side  pockets  of 
his  coat ;  he  kept  them  there,  regarding  Bodewin 
calmly.  Hillbury's  habit  of  repression  deceived 
people  as  to  his  emotional  capacity.  At  the  mo 
ment  he  was  deeply  disturbed,  but  no  trace  of  his 
inward  struggle  betrayed  itself. 

"I  have  mourned  an  old  friend  lately,"  he  said, 

I  with  a  sad  dignity  of  manner  that  sobered  Bodewin 

at  once.    "Can  you  tell  me  anything  about  him?" 

"  Is  he  a  friend  of  mine  ? "  asked  Bodewin, 
speaking-  bewilderedly  the  first  words  that  came. 

"He  should  be  —  his  name  is  John  Bodewin. 
I  thought  I  saw  him  a  week  ago  amusing  himself 
in  an  idyllic  fashion  in  a  cabin  in  the  Lake  woods ; 
but  as  he  once  assured  me  there  was  no  such 
cabin,  I  must  have  been  mistaken." 

Bodewin  returned  Hillbury's  look  steadily. 
"  Were  you  looking  for  John  Bodewin  when  you 
saw  him  as  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  was." 

"  Why  did  you  go  there  to  look  for  him  ?  To 
find  out  if  he  was  a  liar  and  a  scoundrel  ?  I'll  tell 
you  where  you  were  mistaken,  Hillbury — in  call- 


247 

ing  a  man  you  did  not  trust  your  friend.  When  j 
you  begin  to  suspect  your  friends,  you  will  not! 
lack  trifles  to  confirm  your  suspicions." 

"  There  may  be  a  difference  of  opinion  as  to 
what  are  trifles,"  Hillbury  said.  Bodewin  looked 
once  more  at  his  friend.  His  dark  eyes  softened 
into  no  returning  tenderness,  though  Bodewin's 
eyes  were  smarting  with  a  hot,  shameful  moisture. 
The  blow  had  cut  him  keenly.  It  was  so  unex 
pected —  so  coolly,  neatly  delivered  Misunder 
standings  between  friends  are  not  always  hopeless 
things,  especially  when  the  friends  are  men,  and 
capable  of  reasoning  even  upon  questions  of  feel 
ing.  But  how  to  come  to  an  explanation  with 
a  man  who  is  convinced  that  none  is  needed? 
Well,  let  it  go  —  the  friendship  that  has  no  foun 
dation  in  faith  is  not  worth  the  entreating  for. 
He  had  thought  it  seasoned  timber  that  would 
not  give,  but  it  had  parted  with  the  first  strain. 
So  Bodewin  tried  to  philosophize  away  his  pain ; 
but  it  stayed.  It  gnawed  into  his  self-respect,  not 
an  excessive  virtue  with  Bodewin  in  his  best 
moods.  It  took  all  the  sweet  excitement  out  of 
his  meeting  with  Josephine. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

A    STAR    IS    HIDDEN. 

THE  low  black  aperture  of  a  tunnel  facing  the 
valley  and  the  sunset  gave  entrance  to  the  under 
ground  territory  of  the  Eagle  Bird.  Work  was 
still  going  on  in  that  portion  of  the  mine  not 
undei  dispute.  All  night  and  all  day,  at  recur 
rent  intervals,  the  figure  of  a  miner  appeared  at 
the  tunnel's  mouth,  pushing  a  loaded  car  along 
the  tramway  to  the  dump.  He  came  out  at  high 
noon,  when  the  sky  glowed  incandescent  behind 
the  blackened  boles  of  the  pine  trees,  or  when  the 
shadow  of  the  range  lay  half  across  the  valley,  or 
when  the  shadow  had  climbed  the  darkly  wooded 
slopes  opposite,  and  above  it  the  loftiest  peaks 
were  entering  solemnly  into  the  glory  of  the  sun's 
down-sinking.  The  miner  was  still  coming  and 
going,  the  roll  of  the  car  on  the  iron  track  was 
still  heard,  when  the  stars  twinkled  sharply  in  the 
long  strips  of  sky  between  the  pine  trunks ;  and 

248 


A   STAR   IS   HIDDEN.  249 

darkness,  that  all  day  lurked  within  the  tunnel, 
stalked  forth  and  possessed  the  land.  The  roll  of 
the  wheels,  the  clank  of  the  bolt  as  the  car  reared 
on  its  axle,  and  the  dull  crash  of  the  avalanche 
of  earth  and  stones  that  followed,  were  sounds 
that  could  be  heard  a  long  way  off  in  the  stillness 
of  the  wood. 

These  were  the  sounds  by  which  Babe  knew 
when  she  had  reached  the  end  of  her  journey. 
She  heard  them  first  about  sunset  as  she  ap 
proached  the  mine  by  the  trail  from  the  pass.  She 
had  gone  the  long  way  round.  Once  only  she  had 
stopped  to  rest,  at  the  little  ranch  at  the  foot  of 
the  pass,  where  the  woman  was  still  baking  pies 
in  the  outdoor  oven  for  her  wayfaring  customers. 
Babe  was  not  a  customer.  She  had  merely 
stopped  to  ask  the  way  and  the  number  of  miles 
to  the  Eagle  Bird  mine,  where,  she  told  the 
woman,  she  had  a  brother  employed  as  a  miner. 
Seeing  that  she  looked  tired,  and  mistaking  the 
expression  of  her  face  for  that  of  physical  suffer 
ing,  the  woman  urged  Babe  to  sit  and  rest  awhile, 
and  pressed  her  kindly  to  eat  and  drink.  Babe 
gratefully  accepted  a  glass  of  cool  milk  and  con 
sented  to  put  in  her  pocket  a  piece  of  bread  which 
she  could  not  force  herself  to  eat.  The  woman's 


250  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

questions,  and  fixed  though  not  unfriendly  obser 
vation,  troubled  her,  and  shortened  her  rest. 
When  she  came  at  last  within  sight  and  sound  of 
the  mine  it  was  still  so  light  that  she  did  not  ven 
ture  beyond  the  thin  shelter  of  the  wood.  She 
lay  down  upon  the  ground  to  make  herself 
less  conspicuous.  Slowly  the  shadows  crept  from 
the  ground  upward  to  the  tree-tops,  and  a  single 
star  showed  in  the  deepening  blue.  There  were 
others  in  the  sky,  but  this  one  only  Babe  looked 
at,  as  with  her  head  low  on  her  arm  she  rested  and 
waited  for  darkness.  Presently  she  saw  a  light  at 
the  dump  station  —  other  lights  appeared  in  win 
dows  or  moved  about  among  the  dark  buildings. 

The  moon  was  an  hour  or  more  high.  Babe 
started  up,  aware  that  she  must  have  fallen  asleep 
at  the  foot  of  the  tree  where  she  lay.  She  re 
turned  to  the  trail  by  which  she  had  come,  and 
followed  it  past  the  tunnel  and  up  the  steep  and 
dusty  path  to  the  high-stooped  house  built  against 
the  hill,  which  she  had  decided  must  be  the  dwell 
ing  of  the  superintendent.  Here  Mr.  Newbold's 
daughter  would  be  lodged,  if  she  were  living  at  the 
mine.  Babe  made  no  inquiries  to  assure  herself  of 
the  fact.  One  or  two  men  (seated  on  the  steps 
of  the  miners'  boarding-house)  looked  at  her 


A   STAR   IS   HIDDEN.  251 

curiously  as  she  passed,  but  she  was  questioned 
by  no  one. 

An  irregular  pile  of  lumber  was  stacked  close 
to  the  side  of  the  superintendent's  house ;  deep 
shadow  filled  the  space  between.  Babe  crept  in 
over  the  boards,  and  climbed  to  a  place  where  she 
could  look  into  a  bright,  uncurtained  window  of 
the  parlor.  The  room  was  empty.  A  lamp  burned 
on  the  centre-table  and  chairs  were  pushed  out  of 
their  places.  From  the  sound  of  voices  talking, 
Babe  concluded  that  the  recent  occupants  of  the 
room  were  now  assembled  on  the  piazza  outside. 
She  rose  up  cautiously  and  was  groping  her  way 
forward  for  a  better  view,  stepping  lightly  along 
the  tiers  of  boards,  when  Bodewin  and  Josephine 
came  to  the  end  of  the  porch  and  leaned  side  by 
side  on  the  railing  above  her.  The  moon  shone 
full  in  their  faces.  Both  were  gazing  upwards, 
their  eyes  fixed  on  one  spot  in  the  heavens. 

Babe  looked  up  at  the  same  place  in  the  sky, 
but  saw  nothing  more  than  the  moon,  nearly  half 
full,  and  close  to  her  shadowed  side  a  small,  bright 
star.  It  was  this  star  Josephine  and  Bodewin 
were  watching,  for  from  its  position  that  night 
they  knew  it  must  be  near  its  occultation  by  the 
moon.  As  the  distance  lessened  imperceptibly 


252  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

between  it  and  the  undefined  arc  of  shadow  ap 
proaching  it,  the  star  seemed  to  throb  and  flash, 
red,  gold,  and  sapphire,  as  if  it  were  panting  to 
its  extinction.  If  anything  could  have  made 
those  two,  standing  in  the  light  of  heavenly  bliss, 
as  it  seemed  to  Babe,  more  hopelessly  far  away 
from  her,  it  was  this  mysterious,  rapt  attention 
fixed  upon  some  object  which  to  her  had  no  exis 
tence.  At  first  she  thought  they  might  be  taking 
some  silent  vow  together,  but  then  she  heard 
•  Josephine  speaking,  in  a  clear,  even  voice. 

"  It  is  only  a  little  star,  but  we  have  looked  at 
it  so  long  it  see  ins  the  only  one  in  all  the  sky. 
Has  it  a  name,  do  you  know?" 

"  I  think  it  is  Antares,"  Bodewin  replied. 

"  Antares,"  Josephine  replied,  dwelling  on  the 
vo welled  syllable  with  satisfaction.  "  The  occul- 
tation  of  Antares !  How  imposing  it  sounds.  And 
I  suppose  all  the  world  is  watching  it  with  us  to 
night." 

"  We  are  the  only  watchers  in  this  part  of  the 
world,  I  fancy,"  said  Bodewin, — "except  Hillbury, 
perhaps,"  he  added,  sadly.  His  heart  swelled  with 
the  pain  of  love  unspoken.  Josephine's  white- 
clad  shoulder  was  nearly  touching  his  arm.  If  he 
were  to  put  it  out  and  draw  her  to  him  it  might 


A   STAR   IS   HIDDEN.  253 

change  both  their  lives  forever.  Yes,  and  it 
might  ruin  his.  Why  should  he  not  speak  to  her, 
at  least,  and  take  his  answer  for  life  or  death? 
There  was  not  an  atom  of  his  flesh  that  did  not 
worship  her.  And  for  his  better  part  —  who  had 
ever  appealed  to  that  as  she  had  done  ?  Had  she 
not  found  him  in  a  slough  of  moral  doubt  and 
sophistry,  and  shown  him  his  duty,  without  ques 
tion  of  her  right,  as  if  she  knew  instinctively  that 
she  was  born  to  be  his  soul's  mistress  and  the  light 
of  his  dull,  purposeless  life?  He  was  trembling 
with  the  intoxicating  risk  of  speech.  Josephine's 
eyes  were  still  upon  the  star;  her  hand  rested  on 
the  rail.  The  impulse  to  cover  it  with  his  own 
was  so  strong  that  for  an  instant  he  fancied  he 
must  have  done  so  involuntarily,  for  suddenly  she 
stepped  back  and  dropped  her  eyes. 

"  It  is  gone !  "  she  said.  "  Did  you  see  how  at 
the  last  it  seemed  to  leap  out  of  sight  ?  I  am  so 
glad  to  have  seen  it;  but  now  let  us  go  in." 

"  Oh,  no,  not  now ;  stay  until  we  see  it  again  on 
the  other  side."  And  silently  he  resolved  that 
before  they  saw  the  star  again  he  would  know  his 
fate. 

"  It  will  not  seem  like  the  same  star  when  we 
see  it  again,"  said  Josephine ;  "  and  if  it  did  it 


254  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

would  only  be  an  anti-climax — like  Juliet  coming 
before  the  curtain  after  the  death  scene." 

Her  light,  cool  words  confused  Bodewin  and 
gave  his  passion  a  moment's  check.  Josephine 
was  leaning  on  her  crossed  arms  gazing  down  into 
the  shadow  cast  by  the  pile  of  boards.  Some  ob 
ject  moving  there  had  attracted  her  attention. 
She  had  seen  a  head  emerge,  as  it  were,  from  that 
well  of  darkness  —  a  head  framed  in  moonlight, 
the  shadowed  face  invisible.  The  fair  head  of  a 
young  woman  who  crouched  among  the  boards 
and  looked  upwards  in  a  fixed  agony  of  attention. 
At  the  instant  Josephine's  eyes  rested  011  it,  the 
head  disappeared,  but  that  brief  look  thrilled  her 
with  the  sensation  of  having  long  been  watched 
by  some  unknown  person  lurking  in  the  darkness 
below. 

She  turned  to  Bodewin  and  said  softly,  "  Look ! 
who  is  that?"  pointing  downwards  with  her  white- 
sleeved  arm.  "You  will  see  her  in  a  moment." 
Again  the  head  emerged ;  this  time  it  was  bent  and 
hidden  by  a  shawl.  The  moon  had  climbed  a 
little  higher,  and  the  shadow  which  had  covered 
Babe  had  shrunk  away,  and  left  her  cowering 
form  exposed.  It  had  stolen  away  so  gradually 
that,  absorbed  in  her  unhappy  watch,  she  had  not 


A  STAR  IS   HIDDEN.  255 

been  aware  of  its  retreat.  She  was  plainly 
trapped,  with  the  precipitous  bank  behind  her, 
the  heap  of  boards  on  one  side,  and  bright  moon 
light  illuminating  her  only  way  of  escape.  If  she 
could  gain  the  trail  the  dip  of  the  ground  would 
hide  her.  She  rose  up,  desperate,  and  with  her 
shawl  muffling  her  head  and  face,  walked  out  into 
the  light. 

Bodewin  had  not  seen  the  girl's  face,  and  Babe,  / 
a  moment  before,  had  been  far  from  his  thoughts, 
but  something  within  him  foreboded  that  this  was 
Babe  —  Babe  unhappy  and  desperate — shelterless, 
homeless,  perhaps  through  her  service  to  him. 
Surely  the  figure,  the  height,  the  movement  were 
Babe's  as  she  walked  out  into  the  light. 

"I  think  I  had  better  see  who  that  is,"  he  said. 
"  Excuse  me  a  moment." 

If  he  were  to  see  who  it  was,  there  was  no  time 
for  ceremony.  Josephine  watched  him  down  the 
steps  and  across  the  moonlit  space  before  the  slope 
of  the  hill  hid  him  from  her  sight.  She  walked 
up  and  down  the  piazza  alone  once  or  twice.  She 
stood  and  listened.  The  dead  woods  were  still. 
There  were  no  insect  voices  calling.  It  stemed  as 
if  she  could  almost  hear  Bodewin's  retreating  foot 
steps  pounding  along  down  the  trail.  The  rumble 


256  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

of  a  car  running  out  from  the  tunnel  drowned  the 
fainter  sounds.  The  iron  rails  resounded  as  the 
car  travelled  swiftly  down  the  track.  Was  that  a 
man's  voice  calling  in  the  woods  ?  Now  came  the 
crash  of  the  car-load  over  the  dump.  Why  did 
they  stay  so  long  at  the  dump-station?  She 
waited  and  listened  mechanically  for  the  roll  of 
the  returning  car-wheels. 

Why  did  Bode  win  remain  away  so  long  —  and 
why,  in  the  meantime,  was  that  car  still  waiting 
at  the  dump-station  !  She  shivered  and  went 
into  the  house. 

Bodewin  had  caught  sight  of  the  figure  he  was 
in  chase  of  as  it  passed  the  light  at  the  mouth  of 
the  tunnel.  She  was  running  wildly;  the  shawl 
had  dropped  from  her  head,  and  he  saw  that  it 
was  Babe.  Should  he  let  her  go  ?  He  hesitated  ; 
then  his  heart  smote  him  for  the  desolate  young 
figure  flying  to  the  woods  for  shelter  like  a 
hunted  creature.  What  man  has  not  a  tenderness 
for  the  woman  he  suspects  of  a  hopeless  attach 
ment  to  himself  —  and  Babe  must  be  in  trouble. 
Perhaps  she  had  come  with  an  intention  of  asking 
his  help,  and  seeing  him  so  preoccupied  with 
another  woman,  had  in  her  mad,  foolish  pride 
flung  herself  away  from  him  into  the  night  and 


A  STAB   IS  HIDDEN.  257 

the  forest.  She  should  not  go  in  that  way.  He 
had  hesitated  but  an  instant,  and  now  followed 
with  greater  speed,  —  down  the  steep,  dim  slope 
of  the  woods,  slipping  and  stumbling.  She  was 
still  some  distance  ahead  of  him.  Now  she  fell, 
but  was  up  and  on  again  faster  than  before.  He 
was  close  upon  her,  had  called  her  by  name,  when 
she  turned  and  looked  back  at  him,  motioned  him 
back  with  a  gesture  of  her  arm,  and  then,  doub 
ling  suddenly,  she  flew  along  the  unused  trail 
across  the  foot  of  the  dump.  It  was  scarcely 
wider  than  a  man's  two  hands.  Bodewin  heard 
a  car  rumbling  out  from  the  tunnel  — "  Babe  !  " 
he  shouted.  "  Come  back,  for  God's  sake !  A 
car  is  coming  !  " 

She  was  nearly  half-way  across  the  dump. 
Bodewin  called  and  waved  his  arms  frantically  to 
the  man  above.  The  miner  was  running  behind 
his  car,  and  the  noise  of  its  wheels  drowned  Bode- 
win's  cries.  He  started  after  Babe  by  the  same 
impossible  path  she  had  taken,  but  at  that  moment 
the  car  reared  on  its  pivot,  and  the  avalanche 
came.  The  greater  mass  of  earth  clung  to  the 
slope  of  the  dump,  but  stones  and  pieces  of  rock 
leaped  and  pelted  and  bounded  down  the  steep. 
They  fell  all  about  Bodewin,  but  he  was  not 


258  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

conscious  of  being  hurt.     He  slid  off  the   trail, 

and   down   among   the  ddbris  below  he  crawled 

about,  searching  for  Babe.     He   found  her  lying 

as  she  had  been  hurled  from  the  path  by  the  stone 

•  j  that  struck  her  in  the  breast.     He  spoke  to  her  as 

,  he  raised  her  in  his  arms  and  asked  if  she  knew 

him.     She  assented  with  a  motion  of  her  head. 

"Is  there  anything  you  wanted  of  me,  Babe? 
Tell  it  me  now,  if  there  is,  before  I  go  for  help." 

"I  don't  want  help,"  she  said,  speaking  with 
short  breaths  of  pain.  "  Nobody  can  help  me." 

"Don't  say  that,  Babe.     Where  is  your  hurt?" 

"It  don't  matter,"  she  panted.  "The  hurt 
don't  matter.  Come  closer,"  She  put  up  her 
hand  to  his  face.  He  bent  lower  to  hear  her 
difficult  sentences.  "  Say  you  won't  tell  who  I 
am  ! "  she  whispered.  "  Let  it  be  like  I  was  a 
stranger  to  you.  If  Dad  finds  me  out — he'll  'low 
't  I  was  folio  win'  after  you.  I  never  went  back 
that  night  —  I  come  on  alone  through  the  woods 
—  but  I  never  meant  to  give  you  trouble.  I 
'lowed  to  see  her  just  once.  —  Now  I'm  done. 
This  is  the  best  way  out  of  it.  —  Only  say  you'll 
be  like  you  an'  me  was  strangers  !  —  Strangers  " 
>  she  repeated,  and  her  voice  broke  from  its  hoarse 
whisper  into  a  cry. 


A  STAK   IS   HIDDEN.  259 

Boclewin  shuddered.  "Don't  ask  me  that, 
Babe,  for  God's  sake  !  That  would  be  impossible. 
You  don't  see  how  useless  it  would  be.  —  But, 
child,  you  are  not  going  to  die."  He  spoke ( 
wildly,  with  the  horror  upon  him  that  she  was  | 
dying  already,  and  help  so  near.  She  did  not 
speak.  Her  eyes  were  losing  their  expression  — 
her  breast  heaved  strangely,  and  one  hand  that 
lay  on  the  ground  moved  like  a  wounded  bird 
struggling  in  the  leaves.  Bodewin  knew  that  he 
would  give  the  promise.  The  cold  sweat  pricked 
out  upon  his  forehead  as  he  stooped,  his.  lips  close 
to  Babe's  ear. 

"We  will  be  strangers,  Babe.  No  one  shall 
ever  hear  of  you  from  me — not  if  it  costs  me  my 
good  name,"  he  groaned  to  himself. 

Still  she  did  not  speak.  —  Still  the  fluttering 
hand  and  the  long,  struggling  respirations.  —  He 
clasped  her  hand.  "  Babe,  do  you  hear  me  ? " 
The  hand  closed  upon  his  and  tightened  with  the 
hold  of  death  upon  life. 

The  miners  off  duty  for  the  night  who  were 
lounging  about  the  boarding-house  steps,  heard 
Bodewin's  cry  —  as  Josephine  fancied  she  heard 
it,  piercing  the  rumble  of  the  car.  They  discussed 
the  sound  for  a  moment  and  then  hurried  down 


260  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

into  the  woods  in  the  direction  from  which  it 
came.  It  was  a  lifeless  burden  they  carried  up 
the  hill.  Bodewin  walked  behind  it,  wiping  the 
blood  from  his  cheek  where  a  stone  had  cut  him, 
making  a  slight  wound.  As  they  came  out  from 
the  blackened  wood,  and  the  sky  arched  clear 
overhead,  he  looked  up  and  saw  Antares  shining, 
a  point  of  light,  close  to  the  moon's  bright  side. 
Bodewin  did  not  yet  know  his  fate. 

Two  hours  afterwards  Mr.  Newbold  sat  on  the 
piazza  with  a  cigar  which  he  was  trying  to  smoke 
between  his  fingers.  Josephine  walked  softly  up 
and  down ;  from  time  to  time  she  looked  at  Bode 
win,  as  he  sat  on  the  steps,  his  head  between  his 
hands.  No  one  had  spoken  for  many  minutes. 
At  last  Josephine  stopped  behind  her  father's 
chair. 

"  Papa,  do  you  think  I  may  see  —  her  —  before 
they  take  her  away  ?  " 

"  If  you  ask  what  I  think  —  I  have  told  you  al 
ready —  it  is  no  place  for  you." 

"I  should  think  it  was  any  woman's  place," 
said  Josephine. 

"  There  have  been  women  enough,  Lord  knows. 
The  room  was  full  of  them  till  the  doctor  turned 
them  all  out." 


A  STAR  IS  HIDDEN.  261 

Mr.  Newbold's  temper  always  suffered  when  his 
sympathies  were  attacked.  They  had  just  been 
subjected  to  an  unusual  shock.  The  affair,  be 
sides,  was  a  most  unfortunate  one  for  the  mine. 
The  Eagle  Bird  was  notorious  enough  already,  in 
all  unprofitable  ways. 

"Will  they  take  her  down  to  the  camp  to-night, 
Bodewin  ?  "  he  asked,  raising  his  voice  a  little  that 
it  might  penetrate  Bodewin's  abstracted  mood. 
"  Yes,"  said  Bodewin,  without  looking  up. 
"  How  will  they  take  her,  do  you  think  ?  " 
"  The  undertaker's  wagon,  I  suppose." 
"  Papa,"  said  Josephine,  laying  her  hands  softly 
upon  his  shoulders  as  she  stood  behind  him,  "  why 
do  you  let   them  take  her  away?     Why  not  let 
her  friends  find  her  here,  among  friends  ?  " 
"  What  are  you  talking  about,  Josephine  ?  " 
"  I  am  asking  you  not  to  let  that  young  girl  be 
taken  down  to  the  camp,  for  everybody  to  look 
at.      She  was  laid  here  at  our  door ;    let  us  take 
care  of  her." 

"  Don't  be  silly,  Josephine.  What  do  you  call 
our  door?  What  have  we  to  do  with  it,  except  to 
regret  it  as  a  most  shocking  and  unnecessary  acci 
dent?  I  don't  myself  understand  yet  how  it 
happened."  Mr.  Newbold  cast  an  irritated  glance 


262  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

towards  the  motionless  figure  on  the  steps.  "  Be 
sides,"  he  continued,  jerking  his  chair  forward  a 
little  on  the  painted  floor,  "she  has  not  been 
identified.  No  one  knows  what  sort  of  a  story 
she  may  have  attached  to  her.  It  looks  very 
peculiar,  to  say  the  least." 

Bodewin  went  down  the  steps  and  walked  away 
towards  the  stables.  He  had  got  his  old  horse 
back  again,  with  the  scar  on  his  hip  from  Tony 
Keesner's  bullet.  He  went  out  to  him,  as  to  the 
only  creature  who  could  give  him  comfort  that 
night.  The  faithful  old  comrade  who  asked  no 
questions,  who  had  never  doubted  or  disowned  his 
friend.  He  felt  for  the  bony  white  nose  in  the 
darkness.  Baldy  recognized  his  master's  step  and 
his  touch,  though  he  had  not  spoken.  He  greeted 
him  with  sedate  whinnyings,  backing  about  in  his 
stall  to  show  his  readiness  for  a  night-ride  if  his 
master  required  it  of  him. 

Josephine  on  the  piazza  was  saying  to  her 
father :  "  Papa,  do  you  remember  the  cabin  in 
the  woods  I  told  you  of,  that  Mr.  Craig  saw  when 
he  was  lost,  —  and  the  wonderfully  pretty  girl  ? 
Is  this  girl  beautiful?" 

"Remarkably  beautiful,  I  should  say,  for  that 
class  of  girl." 


A   STAR   IS   HIDDEN.  263 

"  There  cannot  be  so  many  such  beautiful  girls 
in  a  place  like  this." 

"  She  may  not  belong  to  this  place." 

"  Papa,  I  think  I  must  see  her.  She  might  be 
the  same  one,  you  know." 

"I  should  think  Craig  would  be  the  best  judge 
of  that.  He  will  see  her  to-morrow.  However, 
there  is  nothing  to  prevent  your  seeing  her,  if 
you  want  to,  —  only  don't  ask  me  to  go  with 
you." 

"  Is  any  one  with  her  ?  "  asked  Josephine. 

"  I  believe  there  are  some  men  waiting  in  the 
office.  They  have  put  her  in  the  next  room  — 
Reed's  bedroom.  By  George,  if  I  were  Reed,  I 
shouldn't  half  like  it." 

Josephine  went  down  to  the  door  of  the  office 
and  knocked.  Two  or  three  men  within  ceased 
talking  as  she  entered.  One  of  them  rose  and 
laid  down  his  cigar.  This  was  Mr.  Reed,  the  as- 
sayer  and  engineer  of  the  mine. 

"  I  came  to  see  the  young  girl  who  was  killed," 
Josephine  said  hurriedly,  feeling  half  ashamed 
of  the  intention,  now  she  was  about  to  carry  it 
out. 

"  The  body  is  in  here,  Miss  Newbold,  —  please 
excuse  the  looks  of  the  room,"  Mr.  Reed  said 


264  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

% 

politely,  as  he  opened  the  door.  He  was  about 
to  follow  her  in,  when  she  hurriedly  thanked  him 
and  begged  to  be  allowed  to  go  in  alone. 

It  was  a  small  room  with  a  low  board  ceiling, 
painted  white ;  the  walls  were  merely  wooden 
partitions,  covered  with  hangings  of  a  dark-red 
calico.  Half  of  the  room  was  occupied  by  the 
bed.  A  lamp  on  the  floor  behind  it  threw  its 
shadow  hugely  over  the  wall  and  up  on  the  ceiling 
above.  In  this  shadow  Josephine  saw  a  motion 
less  woman's  form,  partly  covered  by  a  shawl.  The 
dust  of  the  pass  and  the  soot  of  the  burnt  forest 
were  on  her  garments.  Her  travel-worn  shoes 
were  on  her  feet.  As  to  her  beauty  there  was  no 
doubt.  She  lay  on  her  back,  at  her  fair  length, 
her  face  turned  a  little  aside  showing  the  curve 
beneath  the  chin  and  the  straightened  line  of 
neck  behind  the  ear.  The  shadow  of  long  lashes 
hid  the  sightless  parting  of  the  lids.  Her  long 
braids  of  hair,  golden,  with  a  silver  light  on  it, 
were  brought  forward  across  her  flattened  shoul 
ders,  following  the  curve  of  her  breasts  and  slip 
ping  out  of  sight  between  her  arms  and  grandly 
sloping  hips.  There  was  all  the  tacit,  slumbering 
pride  of  Babe's  personality  in  her  death-pose.  A 
princess  lying  in  state  could  not  have  mutely  com- 


A  STAR   IS   HIDDEN.  ^          265 

manded  more  respect  than  this  victim  of  ill-condi 
tions  at  the  climax  of  her  life's  defeat. 

It  was  impossible  not  to  feel  that  some  rem 
nant  of  consciousness  must  linger  here  to  suffer 
from  the  intrusion  of  a  stranger's  pity.  It  gave0 
Josephine  an  almost  hysterical  sensation  to  think, 
of  the  crowds  that  to-morrow  would  press  around! 
this  form  of  sacred  maidenhood,  and  stare  at  its 
beauty,  and  wonder  at  its  history.  Something 
that  was  not  love  nor  pity,  only  a  blind  yearning 
of  the  human  towards  the  human,  across  the  im 
passable  barrier,  drew  the  living  girl  close  to  the 
dead.  She  laid  her  arms  on  each  side  of  her,  on 
the  bed,  her  heart  beating  close  above  the  one 
that  was  still,  her  breath  warm  on  the  white,  half- 
averted  face.  She  uttered  no  sound,  but  incohe 
rent  sobbing  exclamations  were  struggling  in  her 
breast.  The  link  between  the  lives  of  these  two 
women,  strangers  to  each  other  and  subject  alike 
to  conditions  others  had  made  for  them,  was  only 
made  stronger  by  Babe's  death. 

Josephine  stood  awhile  outside  of  the  office 
door,  looking  out  into  the  gray,  melancholy  moon 
light.  She  saw  Bodewin  at  a  little  distance,  com 
ing  towards  the  house  from  the  stables,  walking 
unsteadily,  with  his  head  down.  His  unconscious 


266  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

figure  seemed  to  bring  upon  her,  all  at  once,  a 
sense  of  all  the  unknown  human  misery  that 
presses  upon  young  lives  and  brings  a  sudden 
home-sickness  in  the  midst  of  friends,  and  a  pang 
of  loneliness  to  the  summer  night.  She  burst 
into  tears.  Bode  win  had  seen  her.  He  saw  that 
she  was  weeping.  He  came  to  her  quickly  and 
took  her  hand  in  his.  He  knew  where  she  had 
been. 

"  Don't  cry  so,"  he  said.  "  There  is  so  much 
trouble  in  this  world  that  is  worse  than  death." 

"  I  know  it  —  I  feel  as  if  there  was  trouble 
all  around  us  to-night."  She  began  to  sob 
again. 

"Not  your  trouble,  I  hope,"  he  said,  and  then 
he  murmured  helplessly,  "  God  bless  you  !  "  He 
lifted  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  The  action  startled 
her  into  stillness. 

"  Will  you  look  at  me  ?  "  he  asked,  still  holding 
her  by  the  hand.  "  Can  you  see  my  face  ?  "  —  he 
turned  it  to  the  light. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  trembling. 

"  Do  I  look  like  a  man  you  could  believe  in,  if 
his  best  friend  deserted  him,  —  if  he  were  hunted 
for  a  villain  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Josephine  again. 


A   STAE,  IS   HIDDEN.  267 

His  hand  closed  hard  upon  hers.  "  God  bless 
you,"  he  said  again. 

He  walked  beside  her  in  silence  to  the  steps  of 
the  porch,  then  he  looked  good-night  or  good-bye 
without  speaking  and  left  her.  She  saw  him  go 
back  to  the  door  of  the  office  and  sit  down  on  the 
low  step,  in  the  moonlight. 

"He  does  not  know  her,"  she  said  to  herself; 
"  yet,  if  he  looks  so  when  I  am  dead,  I  shall  be 
satisfied." 

She  went  to  her  room  and  lay  upon  her  bed, 
in  the  white  soft  dress  she  had  put  on  that  even 
ing  because  it  was  one  of  the  dresses  she  had 
always  been  happy  in,  —  and  Bodewin  had  come 
home.  She  lay  there,  too  miserable  to  light  her 
lamp  and  undress  herself;  but  at  twelve  o'clock 
the  rattle  of  a  wagon  coming  up  the  hill  roused 
her.  It  stopped  before  the  office  door.  Josephine 
sat  up  in  bed,  shuddering.  She  made  the  room 
light,  drew  her  curtains  close,  and  began  hurriedly 
to  take  off  her  clothes.  Her  face  was  as  pale  as 
the  sheets  when  she  lay  down  in  her  bed  again, 
leaving  the  lamp  still  burning. 

She  heard  sounds  below  her  window.  Voices 
and  footsteps  of  men,  the  grating  of  a  heavy  box 
pushed  over  the  floor  of  the  wagon,  the  click  of 


268  JOHN   BODE  WIN'S   TESTIMONY. 

the   spring   as  the   tail-board   shut.     The   wagon 
drove  away. 

Bodewin  walked  behind  it  down  the  hill,  and 
watched  it  out  of  sight  along  the  dim,  dusty, 
moonlit  road  to  the  camp. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

A  MEETING  IN  THE   WOOD. 

CROWDS  came  and  went  the  next  day  and 
looked  at  Babe,  and  no  one  spoke  her  name.  No 
one  came  from  the  cabin  in  the  wood.  Mr.  Craig 
had  gone  to  Denver  by  the  stage  at  four  o'clock, 
before  the  Eagle  Bird  tragedy  was  generally 
known  in  the  camp.  There  were  two  men  who 
recognized  her,  but  each,  for  his  own  reasons, 
kept  the  knowledge  to  himself.  One  was  Har- 
kins,  who  had  arrived  that  morning  by  private 
team  from  the  railroad  terminus;  the  other  was 
Hillbury.  He  had  heard  the  particulars  of  the 
accident  from  Mr.  Newbold. 

"  And  Bodewin  says  he  does  not  know  her,"  he  1 
mused  gloomily,  when  the  story  was  finished. 

"He  does  not  say  much  of  anything,"  Mr. 
Newbold  replied,  "  but  it  is  evident  that  he  does 
not  know  her.  It  was  a  shocking  thing  for  him. 
She  was  killed  before  his  very  face." 

"Why  did  he  follow  her?" 


270  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"  She  was  lurking  around  the  house,  as  if  she 
had  some  business  she  wanted  to  keep  to  herself. 
My  daughter  saw  her  first,  crouching  down  among 
some  boards  close  to  the  parlor  windows.  She 
pointed  her  out  to  Bodewin,  who  was  on  the 
piazza  with  her.  The  girl  ran  off  when  she  found 
sho  was  discovered,  and  Bodewin  followed  her, 
very  naturally,  I  think.  Haven't  you  seen  Bode 
win  to-day?" 

"  No,"  said  Hillbury. 

"  Well,  I'm  not  surprised  he  don't  want  to  talk 
about  it.  He  is  all  'broke  up,'  as  they  say  out 
here.  Harkins  is  in  town,  I  hear.  Came  in  his 
usual  splendor.  Pete  Harrison's  barouche  and 
best  team  ordered  by  telegraph  to  meet  him  at 
the  end  of  the  track." 

"  Yes,  I  saw  his  arrival." 

"I  suppose  he  has  come  to  look  up  his  'affidavit 
men,'  as  Sammis  calls  them,  for  the  trial." 

Hillbury  gave  Mr.  Newbold  a  sudden  look. 
He  wondered  if  that  amiably  discursive  gentle 
man  could  be  aware  that  he  had  himself  received, 
that  morning,  a  summons  to  appear,  under  penalty 
of  the  law,  as  a  witness  for  the  Uinta  against  the 
Eagle  Bird. 

Colonel   Harkins  had  arrived  in  the  morning. 


A  MEETING  IN  THE  WOOD.  271 

He  had  followed  the  stream  of .  excitement  to  the 
undertaker's  rooms  and  had  looked  at  Babe,  as 
Hillbury  had  looked  at  her,  in  silence.  In  the 
afternoon  he  ordered  a  horse  saddled  and  rode 
away  over  the  hills  alone,  to  look  at  a  "  prospect " 
he  had  thought  of  buying  for  some  Eastern 
parties,  so  he  said.  The  way  of  his  "  prospect " 
was  the  way  to  the  Keesner  cabin,  but  before 
he  came  in  sight  of  it  he  stopped  and  looked  and 
listened  intently,  to  make  sure  he  was  the  only 
traveller  in  that  part  of  the  forest.  While  he  was 
taking  this  precaution,  he  was  aware  of  a  horse's 
tread,  muffled  on  the  sodden  pine-needles,  but 
approaching  distinctly  from  the  direction  of  the 
pass.  Harkins  began  whistling  and  looking 
about  him  at  the  trees,  as  if  considering  their 
value  as  timber.  The  horseman  proved  to  be 
Tony  Keesner,  —  Tony,  more  down-looking  and 
sullen  than  usual,  with  a  fierce  spot  of  light  in 
each  of  his  narrow  black  eyes  fixed  on  the  distance. 

"  Tony  is  trailin'  somebody,"  Harkins  com 
mented,  quietly  watching  his  approach. 

Tony  was  in  the  mood  to  resent  the  unexpected 
appearance  even  of  a  friend.  He  transferred  the 
gleam  in  his  eyes  from  the  indefinite  distance  to 
Harkins's  face,  without  a  change  of  expression. 


272  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"How  are  you,  Anthony?"  said  Harkins,  in  a 
soft,  grave  voice.  "How's  the  cabin,  and  how's 
all  the  folks?" 

"  Cabin's  empty,  all  but  Dad,"  Tony  replied. 

"What  have  you  done  with  the  rest  of  the 
family?"  Harkins  asked. 

Tony  appeared  to  swallow  something  hard  in 
his  throat.  It  might  have  been  rage  —  it  could 
not  have  been  tears.  "  They're  clean  gone ;  they 
lit  out  together  las'  night.  I  been  huntin'  'em 
sence  sun  up ;  I  been  clear  over  the  pass  to  Fair- 
play." 

"You're  off  the  scent,  Tony.  You're  all  off. 
I'm  just  from  camp.  Bodewin's  there,  sloshin' 
round  as  cool  as  quicksilver ;  and  Babe  is  there. 
Tony,  I've  got  some  advice  to  give  you  and  the 
old  man,  but  I  want  to  hear  from  you  first.  How 

did  this  thing  happen  ?  —  You  must  'a'  been  d 

careless." 

They  rode  on  slowly,  side  by  side,  towards  the 
cabin,  talking  earnestly,  Tony  in  quick,  hard 
sentences,  dropping  like  hailstones  in  the  rain 
of  Harkins's  words.  As  they  dismounted  in  front 
of  the  cabin  and  looked  about  them,  each  uttered 
in  his  own  manner  his  favorite  formula  of  pro- 
The  corral  was  empty,  the  cabin  door 


A  MEETING  IN  THE   WOOD.  273 

was  shut ;  the  young  setter  dog  howled  and  leaped 
against  the  door  when  he  heard  footsteps  outside, 
but  no  voice  from  within  bade  him  be  quiet.  A 
scrap  of  soiled  white  paper  fluttered  from  the 
crack  of  the  door,  in  which  it  had  been  wedged 
with  a  splinter  of  wood. 

Harkins  jerked  out  the  wedge  and  handed  the 
paper  to  Tony,  with  the  question  — "  Is  that  the 
old  man's  fist?" 

Tony  acknowledged  his  father's  handwriting. 
It  addressed  him  briefly,  as  follows :  — 

"Tony  I  got  word  of  her  she  aint  livin  I  am  goen  down  to 
Camp  to  clame  the  boddy." 

Both  men  swore  again,  as  if  it  were  a  kind  of 
rite  each  felt  bound  to  go  through  with,  under 
the  circumstances. 

"How  did  he  go?  Has  he  got  a  horse?" 
Harkins  asked  sharply. 

"Yes,"  said  Tony,  without  moving  his  eyes 
from  the  paper  in  his  hand.  "He's  took  the 
black." 

"Git  after  him,  then,  quick  as  you  can!  He 
couldn't  have  got  word  before  noon.  He's  not  to 
show  himself  in  camp  or  to  open  his  head  till 
I'm  ready  for  him.  Understand?  Tell  him  if  he 


274  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

busts  up  my  scheme  again  with  his  nonsense  I'll 

see  every  mine  he's  got  in ,  and  himself,  too, 

before  I'll  touch  one  of  'em.  Look  sharp  now ! 
Yousabe?" 

Harkins  delivered  these  words  in  his  low  utter 
ance,  commanding  Tony  with  his  eyes  as  well  as 
his  voice.  Harkins  had  eyes  with  a  heavy  fold 
of  the  lid  projecting  over  them;  ophidian  eyes, 
with  a  sluggish  power  in  them  which  better  men 
than  Tony  Keesner  had  defied  to  their  cost. 

Tony  hesitated  —  "  You  understand  we've  got 
to.  get  even  with  Bodewin.  It  ain't  waitin'  and 
talkin'  that'll  do  it,"  he  said. 

Harkins  cursed  him.  "  Haven't  I  got  to  get 

even  with  him?  Do  as  I  tell  you,  or  by I'll 

have  the  sheriff  after  the  old  man  and  you  too. 
You  know  who  you're  talkin'  to  !  " 

Tony  knew.  He  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and 
galloped  away  into  the  woods. 

Mrs.  Craig  had  asked  Josephine  to  stay  with 
her  during  Mr.  Craig's  absence,  or  until  Miss 
Newbold  herself  left  the  camp  with  her  father 
on  their  homeward  journey,  which  was  to  include 
Denver  and  the  trial.  Josephine  had  gladly  ac 
cepted  the  invitation  for  its  own  sake,  and  also 


A  MEETING  IN  THE   WOOD.  275 

because  she  wished  to  get  away  from  the  mine. 
The  light  comedy  of  Mrs.  Craig's  manner,  her 
domestic  confidences  and  foolish  little  household 
jokes,  combined  with  her  real  sensitiveness  and 
tact,  were  happily  curative  in  their  effect  upon 
Josephine's  excited  nerves.  She  found  herself 
laughing  weakly,  like  a  fever  convalescent,  on 
small  occasion.  It  was  a  relief  to  talk  about 
clothes,  to  put  on  her  prettiest  dresses  for  Mrs. 
Craig's  benefit,  and  to  experiment  with  her  back 
hair  at  that  lady's  suggestions.  She  gave  herself 
up  to  be  petted  and  admired,  as  only  a  woman  can 
pet  and  admire  another  woman  who  represents  to 
her  what  her  own  youth  has  been  or  might  have 
been.  More  than  all  was  it  a  relief  to  hear  Mrs. 
Craig  talk  about  Bodewin  in  a  frank,  common 
place  way  which  took  away  something  of  the 
painful  mystery  Josephine's  imagination  had  sur 
rounded  him  with  ever  since  his  return.  Mrs. 
Craig  laughed  at  the  idea  of  anything  formidable 
connected  with  his  reticence  about  his  late  adven 
ture.  "  My  dear,  Bodewin  is  just  like  those  little 
land  '  turtles,'  we  used  to  call  them  when  we  were 
children.  We  used  to  catch  them  and  knock  on 
their  shells  and  call  to  them  to  put  out  their 
heads;  and,  of  course,  they  pulled  them  in  as 


276  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

tight  as  they  could  squeeze.  Depend  upon  it, 
your  father  and  my  husband,  begging  their  par 
dons,  have  been  knocking  Bodewin  on  the  shell 
and  calling  to  him  to  put  out  his  head.  I  know 
just  how  Joe  and  Bodewin  are,  together;  they 
each  bring  out  the  other's  most  unpleasant  traits. 
If  we  could  have  got  Bodewin  to  ourselves  when 
he  first  returned,  I  am  perfectly  certain  we  should 
know  the  whole  story  by  this  time.  Bodewin  isn't 
a  man's  man.  I  don't  mean  that  he  isn't  a  manly 
man.  But  he  was  born  to  be  led  by  women  — 
into  trouble,  and  out  of  it.  If  only  one  woman 
could  get  him  into  permanent  trouble  by  marry 
ing  him,  and  so  keep  him  out  of  insane  and  pro 
miscuous  trouble,  it  would  be  a  great  relief  to 
my  mind.  Bodewin  isn't  a  bit  of  a  genius  that 
I  know  of,  but  I  always  feel  for  him  that  kind  of 
unreasoning  tenderness  that  geniuses  and  wilful, 
lovable  children  always  inspire,  —  a  predisposition 
which  has  no  justice  in  it.  I  know  that  Bode- 
win's  wife,  if  he  had  one,  would  have  ever  so 
much  to  forgive ;  but  she  would  dote  on  his  very 
faults." 

"Perhaps  if  you  had  ever  tried-  "  Josephine 
began,  and  stopped,  coloring  suddenly. 

"  —  Being  the  wife  of  a  genius  ?  "  laughed  Mrs. 


A  MEETING  IN  THE   WOOD.  277 

Craig.  "Oh,  my  dear,"  she  continued,  with  a 
slightly  exaggerated  gayety,  "don't  you  know 
those  little,  reddish-blond  men  are  all  geniuses  ? 
Born  to  blush  unseen,  many  of  them,  but  that  is 
an  accident  of  fate."  Mrs.  Craig  was  talking 
recklessly,  under  the  unwonted  excitement  of 
having  another  woman  of  surprising  congeniality 
to  listen  to  her.  She  would  repent  before  she 
slept  of  half  that  she  said  to  Josephine  during  the 
day,  and  then  proceed  to  pile  up  more  food  for 
repentance  the  next  day.  Of  two  women  who 
are  intimate,  as  a  rule,  one  talks  and  the  other 
listens.  Josephine  listened  and  wondered  a  little, 
but  was  greatly  amused  and  on  the  whole  com 
forted  and  led  away  from  her  own  unaccountable 
unhappiness. 

Mrs.  Craig  was  not  so  occupied  with  talking  to 
Josephine  that  she  did  not  see  there  was  a  change 
in  her,  since  the  early  days  of  her  visit  to  the 
camp.  She  was  more  interesting,  more  compli 
cated.  Has  she  had  an  experience,  her  hostessj 
speculated ;  has  she  taken  one  of  those  sudden 
leaps  of  development  girls  of  her  age  are  subject 
to ;  or  is  it  because  she  is  away  from  home  for  the 
first  time,  in  this  exciting,  consuming  climate, 
among  conditions  altogether  strange  to  her?  Or 


278  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

is  it  because  Bodewin  never  comes  to  ask  her  to 
ride  in  the  valley  ? 

Mrs.  Craig  was  not  so  easy  in  her  mind  about 
Bodewin  as  she  professed  to  be.  And  Hillbury, 
who  had  hitherto  in  her  knowledge  bf  him  been 
the  most  sane  and  satisfactory  of  men,  had  de 
veloped  an  idiosyncrasy  on  his  own  account  to 
match  the  general  absurdity  of  things.  He  too, 
while  hovering  near  them,  avoided  them  as  if 
under  a  vow. 

The  quarters  of  the  government  survey  were 
not  far  from  the  Craig  cabin.  Mr.  Hillbury  was 
obliged  to  pass  its  door  on  his  walks  to  and  from 
the  camp,  unless  he  abandoned  the  ditch-walk  for 
the  woods.  He  thus  found  frequent  occasion  to 
bow  to  Josephine  as  she  sat  on  the  steps  of  the 
porch  in  the  morning,  the  reflection  from  the 
sunny  walk  making  her  dark  eyes  luminous  under 
the  shade  of  her  hat,  or  at  evening,  in  the  glow  of 
sunset,  her  hands  and  arms  bare  to  the  elbows 
gleaming  white  in  her  lap.  Sometimes  he  yielded 
to  a  reluctant  fascination,  and  came  across  the  foot 
bridge  for  a  few  words  with  her,  or  even  took  a 
seat  on  the  step  below  her,  with  the  half-protest 
ing 'air  of  one  who  owes  it  to  himself  to  resist  a 
pleasure  within  reach.  But  he  never  went  in. 


A  MEETING   IN   THE   WOOD.  279 

Mrs.  Craig,  amused  and  puzzled  by  his  cautious 
attitude,  teased  him  a  little  with  playfully  reiter 
ated  invitations  ;  but  Hillbury  kept  his  outward 
defences  secure  against  all  her  neighborly  assaults 
and  the  more  subtly  undermining  influence  of 
Josephine's  repose,  —  a  repose  unlike  the  bright 
directness  of  her  manner  as  he  recalled  his  first 
impressions  of  her.  Hillbury  would  not  have 
permitted  himself  to  use  the  word  in  speaking 
of  a  girl  like  Josephine,  but  it  was  a  repose 
charged  with  passion,  as  electricity  slumbers  in 
still,  deeply  colored  evening  skies.  She  talked 
little,  but  there  was  a  divine  intelligence  in  her  ( 
face.  '  Her  movements  were  softer,  she  carried 
herself  less  unconsciously,  her  very  hands  had  a 
different  expression.  Her  eyes  were  less  widely 
opened,  and  even  when  they  rested  upon  indiffer 
ent  things  were  full  of  an  anxious  tenderness. 
When  they  rested  upon  Hillbury  he  looked  away 
and  his  blood  behaved  in  a  manner  which  would 
have  interfered  with  the  simplest  scientific  in 
quiry.  Hillbury  kept  himself  well  under  his  own 
supervision,  and  these  warnings  did  not  escape 
his  stern  insight,  but  there  were  times  when  he 
rebelled  against  himself  and  asked  himself  why 
he  had  not  an  equal  right  with  other  men  to  make 


280  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

a  fool  of  himself.  Had  he  not  already  made  a 
fool  of  himself  about  a  man ;  why  not  then  about 
a  woman  ?  The  privilege  of  being  inconsistent 
and  probably  unhappy  was  denied  him  by  no  one 
but  himself.  There  were  other  stirrings  and 
questionings  in  Hillbury's  mind  at  this  time. 
The  unlaid  ghost  of  his  affection  for  Bodewin 
daily  and  nightly  troubled  his  peace.  On  his 
way  home  along  the  ditch-walk  one  evening, 
close  upon  the  eve  of  the  trial,  Hillbury's  mind 
being  full  of  that  coming  event,  he  was  aware  of 
a  man  standing  on  the  foot-bridge  opposite  the 
Craig  cabin,  in  an  attitude  that  was  painfully 
familiar.  Hillbury  approached  more  closely,  and 
stopped  when  he  had  reached  the  bridge. 

"  Bodewin,"  he  said,  "  may  I  have  a  few  words 
with  you?" 

uls  that  you,  Hillbury?  You  know  me  then 
once  more.  That  is  kind  of  you." 

Hillbury  was  not  discouraged  by  the  tone  of 
Bodewin's  words.  "  It  is  possible,"  he  began,  — 
and  his  fine  accent  and  dispassionate  manner  at* 
that  moment  were  peculiarly  irritating  to  Bode 
win's  morbid  sensitiveness,  —  "  that  I  may  have 
done  you  some  injustice  in  certain  unhappy  con 
clusions  that  have  lately  been  forced  upon  me. 


A  MEETING  IN   THE  WOOD.  281 

There  is  strong  evidence  against  you.  I  have  had 
to  admit  to  myself  that  it  is  very  strong.  But  I 
find  I  have  an  obstinate  sentiment  towards  you, 
which  does  not  rest  on  evidence.  It  is  this  senti 
ment  which  appeals  to  you  now.  I  hope  the  ap 
peal  may  not  come  too  late.  It  should  never 
be  too  late  to  acknowledge  a  wrong.  Have  I 
wronged  you,  Bode  win?  You  only  can  tell  me 
if  I  have." 

Hillbury  waited  for  some  sign  from  Bodewin. 
None  came  that  could  be  interpreted  as  an  answer 
to  his  appeal. 

"  Are  you  unwilling  to  confide  in  me  ?  Do  you 
consider  the  suffering  you  may  be  causing  those 
who  care  for  you,  by  a  reticence  that  leaves  such 
grave  questions  unanswered  ?  " 

"  You  say  you  have  a  sentiment  still  left  for  me 
which  does  not  rest  upon  evidence  ?  " 

"I  have.  I  have  been  suffering  from  it  for 
many  days." 

"  God  prosper  it,  then,  or  else  kill  it  quickly," 
said  Bodewin,  rather  wildly.  "  I  have  no  evidence 
to  give  you." 

"  You  have  nothing  to  say  to  me,  then  ?  " 

"  Are  you  my  friend,  did  you  say?  " 

"  Are  you  an  honest  man  ?  " 


282 

"Hillbury,"  said  Bodewin,  in  his  more  natural 
manner,  "  I  would  that  all  men  were  as  honest  as 
I  am,  except  these  bonds." 

"  What  bonds  ?  " 

"  That  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"  There  are  bonds  our  sins  make  for  us ;  there 
are  other  bonds  which  come  from  our  duties.  Are 
'  you  in  bondage  to  your  body  or  your  soul  ?  " 

"Do  you  expect  me  to  answer  your  ghostly 
conundrums  ?  Wait,  and  they  will  answer  them 
selves,"  said  Bodewin,  with  a  return  of  his  bitter 
flippance. 

Hillbury  looked  at  him  sadly,  trying  in  vain  to 
read  the  expression  of  his  face  in  the  imperfect 
light,  and  then  went  On  his  way,  past  the  cabin 
where  Mrs.  Craig  and  Josephine  sat  by  the  fire 
and  talked  of  the  coming  trial. 

"  You  must  be  sure  to  go !  "  Mrs.  Craig  was 
saying.  "  I'll  never  forgive  you  if  you  don't  take 
the  trouble  to  go  and  hear  Joe's  speech.  It  is  a 
privilege  his  wife  is  debarred  from  because  she  is 
also  the  mother  of  his  children;  —  and  there  is 
Bodewin's  testimony.  How  strange  it  is  that 
he  hasn't  been  near  us !  "  she  exclaimed,  suddenly 
forgetting  her  caution  of  many  days. 

Josephine's  sigh  echoed  the  word  as  she  went 


A  MEETING  IN   THE   WOOD.  283 

to  th'e  window  and  looked  out.  The  water  wim 
pled  along  darkly  under  the  bridges  and  past  the 
lighted  windows.  Bodewin  still  hung  over  the 
bridge  rail  where  Hillbury  had  left  him.  His 
bitterness  against  Hillbury  was  intensified  by  the 
knowledge  that  to  him  in  his  calm  deliberateness 
were  open  all  the  opportunities  he  felt  obliged  to 
deny  himself,  living,  as  he  was,  in  the  shadow  of 
vengeance.  His  bonds  were  heavy  upon  him.  It 
was  incredible  to  him  that  Babe  had  not  been 
publicly  recognized.  It  was  incredible  that  her 
father's  or  her  brother's  bullet  had  so  long  been 
delayed.  Bodewin  knew  the  class  of  men  they 
belonged  to.  He  knew  their  unappeasable  pride 
of  vengeance ;  whether  it  would  take  the  usual 
form  of  a  bullet  delivered  at  sight  or  a  shameful 
story  that  would  pursue  him  with  a  more  deadly 
aim,  or  both  bullet  and  scandal,  he  could  only 
conjecture.  In  the  meantime  there  was  the  trial, 
with  Mr.  Craig  as  counsel  for  the  Eagle  Bird. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

THE    TRIAL. 

THE  case  of  the  Uinta  versus  Eagle  Bird  was 
called  in  the  afternoon.  Mr.  Newbold  came  back 
to  his  hotel  to  dinner  that  evening  in  high  good 
humor.  Harkins  had  made  no  fight  at  all,  to 
speak  of.  He  had  rested  his  case  on  the  records 
which  Bodewin  was  ready  to  prove  were  not  the 
true  and  original  ones.  His  lawyer  had  talked 
through  his  nose  and  put  his  case  before  the  jury 
in  a  slipshod  way,  on  what  he  called  its  merits, 
without  giving  himself  the  trouble  to  make  a 
speech.  Thus  said  Mr.  Newbold  to  Josephine, 
playing  with  her  coffee-spoon,  and  dubious  as  to 
this  easy  victory.  This  was  not  the  way,  surely,  by 
which  Harkins  had  won  his  ill-omened  reputation. 

Josephine  dressed  herself  to  go  into  court  with 
her  father  on  the  second  day  of  the  trial,  with  a 
nervous  foreboding  that  it  was  to  be  one  of  the 
memorable  days  of  her  life.  Her  travelling  dress, 

which  she  would  have   chosen   to   wear   for  its 

284 


THE  TKIAL.  285 

plainness,  had  received  hard  usage  in  the  moun 
tains.  She  put  on  instead  the  black  satin  with  a 
dark  shimmer  of  beads  over  the  front,  which  she 
had  worn  the  evening  Bodewin  had  been  presented 
to  her.  A  little  bonnet  of  gold-colored  straw  in 
closed  the  crown  of  her  head,  and  was  tied  under 
the  chin  with  black  velvet  strings.  She  was 
buttoning  her  gloves,  and  getting  very  red  in  the 
cheeks  while  doing  it,  when  a  servant  knocked 
with  a  note  for  her  and  a  message  from  her  father 
that  he  waited  for  her  in  the  ladies'  parlor. 

"  Tell  him  I  am  coming  in  a  minute,"  she  said, 
opening  the  note.  "  Oh,  wait,  please  ;  is  an  an 
swer  wanted  to  this?" 

"  No  answer,  miss,"  the  man  replied,  closing  the 
door  softly. 

The  note  was  written  in  a  masculine  hand 
Josephine  did  not  remember  ever  to  have  seen 
before.  She  knew  Bodewin's  close,  angular  char 
acters  and  Mr.  Craig's  legal  scrawl.  She  had  no 
other  acquaintances  in  the  town,  that  she  knew  of. 
The  words  of  the  note  were  :  — 


11  If  Miss  Newbold  would  not  miss  a  scene  of  peculiar  inter 
est  to  herself  for  other  reasons  than  those  connected  with  her 
father's  pocket,  she  will  not  fail  to  be  in  the  court-room 
to-day." 


286  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

The  note  was  not  signed.  Josephine  tore  it  up 
with  the  sensation  of  having  received  an  insult, 
and  dropped  the  pieces  into  a  tall  china  jar  that 
stood  by  her  toilet  bureau.  She  took  up  a  fan, 
somewhat  too  heavily  perfumed,  and  began  fan 
ning  herself  absently.  It  was  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  but  the  sun  was  already  hot  in  the  street 
outside.  The  windows  of  her  room  were  open, 
the  blinds  darkened,  and  the  noise  of  continuous 
passing  came  in  as  she  had  often  heard  it  at  home, 
when  they  stayed  in  town  after  the  summer  heats 
began ;  only,  instead  of  the  heavy  jar  and  rattle 
from  the  pavements,  it  was  the  more  exciting  rush 
of  light  wheels,  and  the  pounding  of  hoofs  on  a 
hard,  resonant  road.  Perhaps,  she  said  to  herself 
tremulously,  it  would  be  better  she  should  not  go 
into  court  that  day ;  but  could  she  miss  this 
chance,  perhaps  the  last  one,  of  seeing  Bodewin ! 

"  What  a  color  you  have  got !  "  her  father  said, 
looking  at  her  as  if  taking,  for  the  first  time,  a 
dispassionate  view  of  her  appearance. 

"These  hot  strings  always  make  my  face  flush." 

Josephine  put  up  her  hand  to  the  bow  of  her 
bonnet-strings,  lifting  her  chin  and  letting  her 
lashes  fall. 

"Why  don't  you  wear  something  different?" 


I 
THE   TRIAL.  287 

"  This  is  the  only  bonnet  I  have  here. 

"  Wear  a  hat  then,"  Mr.  Newbold  suggested. 

"  A  bonnet  is  the  proper  thing,  papa.  It  is 
more  conservative." 

44  If  you  want  to  be  conservative,  the  thing  to 
do  is  to  stay  at  home." 

44 1  promised  Mrs.  Craig  I  would  hear  her  hus 
band's  speech,"  said  Josephine,  blushing  at  her 
own  insincerity. 

44  Craig  can't  make  a  speech  worth  listening 
to !  You  will  have  to  write  her  a  lot  of  lies 
about  it." 

44  Papa,  I  wish  to  go.  I  have  always  intended 
to  go,  since  we  first  talked  of  the  case.  It  cannot 
be  so  very  unusual,  or  Mrs.  Craig  would  not  have 
asked  me  - —  " 

"  Come  on  then  ;  but,  by  George  —  !  "  Mr. 
Newbold  left  his  sentence  unfinished,  except  by 
another  look  of  rueful  admiration  at  his  daughter. 

Mr.  Craig  in  his  opening  speech  gave  a  brief 
history  of  the  dispute  from  the  side  of  the  de 
fence,  and  said  the  defence  would  prove  that  the 
records  by  which  the  mine  had  been  sold  to  Mr. 
Newbold  were  copies  of  the  true  and  original 
ones;  that  the  record  of  the  original  survey 


288  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

would  be  produced  in  evidence  and  sworn  to  by 
the  man  who  made  it.  He  continued,  that  they 
could  not  prove  the  existing  record  on  file  to 
have  been  wilfully  altered,  but  they  could  prove 
that  the  plaintiff  had  had  an  opportunity  so  to 
alter  it,  and  they  could  also  show  the  plaintiff  to 
have  been  the  author  of  a  measure  quite  as  arbi 
trary  and  illegal  as  the  altering  of  loosely  kept 
public  records.  They  could  prove  that  he  had 
caused  a  man,  travelling  peaceably  on  the  public 
highway,  to  be  seized  and  forcibly  detained  out  of 
reach  of  his  friends,  or  of  communication  with 
them,  at  a  time  when  that  man's  liberty  of  action 
was  inconvenient  to  the  plaintiff.  Colonel  Har- 
kins  at  this  point  in  his  opponent's  argument  rose 
and  left  the  court-room,  returning  with  the  Kees- 
ners,  father  and  son,  preceding  him,  with  a  noise 
of  heavy  boots,  to  seats  near  his  own.  The  elder 
Keesner  was  instantly  recognized  by  a  number  of 
people  in  the  court-room.  Mr.  Craig  had  alluded 
to  him  in  his  speech  as  one  of  Harkins's  "  affidavit 
men,"  who  had  conveniently  disappeared  when 
the  sale  of  the  mine  in  his  name  had  been  accom- 
!  plished.  His  reappearance  was  regarded  as  a  sign 
that  Harkins  had  something  in  reserve  for  which 
the  unexpected  feebleness  of  his  attack  had  been 


THE  TRIAL.  289 

but  a  blind  —  an  impression  which  made  itself 
felt  in  an  agreeable  stir  of  revived  interest. 

Jim  Keesner's  long,  wolfish  visage  looked  hag 
gard  in  the  strong  light,  among  faces  which 
showed  better  conditions.  Tony's  face  was  not 
generally  known,  but  it  excited  attention  for  its 
sullen,  picturesque  beauty.  As  he  took  his  seat, 
his  head  came  between  Josephine  and  her  view 
of  Bodewin,  sitting  at  a  distance,  across  the  room. 
She  had  only  ventured  to  look  once  at  Bodewin, 
and  had  not  been  able  to  guess  from  the  expres 
sion  of  his  lowered  eyes  and  pale  set  profile  what 
his  frame  of  mind  might  be. 

The  Keesners  had  entered  the  court-room  with 
that  exaggerated  sense  of  isolation  under  observa 
tion  which  persons  unused  to  a  large  assemblage 
of  people  are  apt  to  have,  appearing  in  one  under 
circumstances  momentous  to  themselves.  Tony 
kept  his  eyes  down,  under  an  impression  that 
everybody  in  the  room  was  looking  at  him. 
When  at  length  he  raised  them,  with  a  forced 
air  of  defiant  indifference,  he  met  Josephine's 
eyes  fixed  upon  him  in  wondering,  startled  recog 
nition. 

The  expression  of  her  face  meant  nothing  to 
him.  He  only  felt  its  beauty,  with  a  shock  of 


290  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

his  savage  blood  as  he  had  felt  it  for  the  first 
time  on  the  rocks  in  the  blinding  sunlight  of 
Mike's  claim.  He  hated  her  for  making  him 
feel  the  distance  between  them.  He  hated  Bode- 
win  for  being  the  man  who  had  sat  at  her  side 
on  the  rocks  and  talked'  to  her  with  a  fulness 
and  ease  of  expression  which  might  be  supposed 
to  please  women  but  could  only  excite  the  con 
tempt  of  men. 

Josephine  was  no  longer  looking  at  or  appar 
ently  conscious  of  him.  Since  it  was  out  of  his 
power  to  produce  any  other  kind  of  impression 
upon  her,  he  fell  into  visions  of  how  he  might 
hurt  her  with  brute  force.  How  he  might  press 
the  color  out  of  her  cheeks  with  his  two  hard 
hands  and  see  it  rushing  back  again  with  helpless 
tears  to  the  proud  dark  eyes.  He  could  see  the 
shape  of  her  arms  defined  by  her  close-fitting 
dress,  as  she  sat  opening  and  shutting  her  fan. 
He  shuddered  slightly  and  set  his  teeth,  imagining 
himself  crushing  their  firm  roundness  in  his  grip. 

Mr.  Craig  was  closing  his  speech.  "  Gentle 
men,"  he  was  saying  to  the  jury,  "what  we  are 
obliged  to  do  is  to  consider  the  character  of  the 
plaintiff  in  the  light  of  this  most  characteristic 
deed.  Bear  in  mind,  it  was  not  done  as  to  John 


THE   TRIAL.  291 

Bodewin,  but  as  to  any  man  whom  the  plaintiff 
wished  temporarily  to  get  out  of  his  way.  Had 
he  desired  to  get  him  out  of  his  way  permanently, 
doubtless  means  would  have  been  found  to  accom 
plish  it.  If  either  you  or  I,  gentlemen,  should,  in 
the  peaceful  conduct  of  our  affairs,  be  so  unfortu 
nate  as  to  get  in  the  plaintiff's  way,  we  might 
expect  to  be  disposed  of  as  summarily  as  our 
witness  was  disposed  of.  The  plaintiff  is  well 
known,  wherever  speculation  in  mines  is  carried 
on$  as  a  man  whom  it  is  not  only  useless  but 
dangerous  to  balk  in  the  accomplishment  of  his 
schemes.  Why?  Because  he  has  no  scruples 
that  interfere  with  his  pursuit  of  other  men's 
property.  He  belongs  to  the  predatory  class  of 
men.  He  has  no  responsibilities  as  to  his  future, 
or  regrets  as  to  his  past.  He  glories  in  his 
successful  crimes.  He  boasts  of  the  power  he 
claims  to  have  of  bending  even  the  law  to  his 
purposes.  Are  we  preparing  for  him  another /if 
triumph  of  this  kind?  We  are  Western  men;ij 
we  want  to  encourage  Eastern  capitalists  to  seek 
investments  in  the  West.  One  way  to  do  it  will ' 
be  to  show  them  that  their  investments  in  the  I/ 
West  can  and  will  be  protected  by  the  West,  j 
The  misfortune  of  one  Eastern  property-owner 


292  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

will  be  a  warning  to  a  hundred  others.  It  is 
just  such  men  as  the  plaintiff  in  this  suit  —  and 
not  many  like  him  would  be  needed  to  do  it  — 
who  ruin  the  business  of  legitimate  mining  in  the 
West." 

Another  ill-omened  pair  of  eyes  had  dwelt  upon 
Josephine's  face  during  a  greater  portion  of  the 
time  Mr.  Craig  was  speaking.  Colonel  Harkins 
considered  himself  a  judge  of  female  beauty,  and 
decided  on  deliberate  inspection  that  Josephine's 
charms  had  not  been  overstated  by  rumor.  He 
was  looking  at  her  when  Mr.  Craig  unexpectedly 
brought  forth  the  words,  "Bear  in  mind,  it  was 
not  done  as  to  John  Bodewin."  The  Colonel 
was  not  a  sensitive  observer,  but  he  could  not 
fail  to  see  that  Josephine's  face  turned  scarlet, 
as  if  her  own  name  had  been  suddenly  called  in 
court  in  an  oratorical  tone  of  voice.  He  saw  that 
she  kept  her  eyes  upon  the  speaker's  face  with  a 
slight  knitting  of  the  brows,  while  the  flush  in 
her  cheeks  subsided,  revived  again,  and  faded 
into  a  marked  paleness.  "  She  is  tender  in  that 
quarter,  too.  —  What  the  devil  ails  the  women, 
to  take  after  a  cold-blooded  sneak  who  can't  tell 
which  girl  he  wants  till  he  has  lost  them  both ! " 
The  Colonel's  large,  light  felt  hat  reposed  on  the 


THE  TRIAL.  293 

angle  of  his  crossed  knees.  A  crimson  rosebud 
rested  against  the  silk  lining  of  his  coat-lapel. 
His  jaws  projected  squarely  on  either  side  of  his 
Napoleon  III.  mustache  and  imperial,  grizzled 
like  the  short,  stiff  hair  on  his  massive  head.  He 
nursed  an  unlit  cigar  between  his  lips,  and  occa 
sionally  changed  it  from  one  corner  of  his  mouth 
to  the  other,  or  tipped  it  sarcastically  upwards 
towards  the  blunt  beak  of  his  nose.  He  listened 
with  perfect  equanimity  to  Mr.  Craig's  theory 
of  his  character  and  exposition  of  his  methods ; 
this  was,  in  fact,  one  of  Harkins's  great  days. 

Sammis,  looking  brilliantly  sunburned,  in  a 
new  suit  of  clothes,  was  the  first  witness  for  the 
defence.  He  testified  to  the  burning  of  the  Gem 
Saloon,  where  the  records  of  the  camp  had  been 
kept  in  the  days  of  its  infancy.  To  the  fact  that 
Harkins  had  the  records  in  his  undisturbed  pos 
session  for  a  day  and  a  night,  and  part  of  the  fol 
lowing  day.  That  the  proprietor  of  the  Gem 
Saloon  was  known  to  have  no  insurance  on  his 
property  and  no  ready  money.  That,  in  spite  of 
having  lost  everything,  he  was  notoriously  better 
off  after  the  fire  than  before  it.  Sammis  bore  his 
cross-examination  well;  but  a  friend  of  his  who 
remembered  some  suspicious  circumstances  con- 


294  JOHN  BODEWIN 's  TESTIMONY. 

nected  with  the  fire,  found,  under  the  opposite 
lawyer's  questioning,  that  he  had  remembered  too 
much.  Another  gentleman,  who  testified  as  to 
the  position  of  the  boundary  monuments  and  de 
clared  that  they  had  been  changed  within  the 
time  of  his  residence  in  the  camp,  was  brought  to 
the  verge  of  tears  by  the  unsympathetic  manner 
of  the  plaintiff's  counsel  and  the  confusion  in  his 
own  dates.  But  this  gentleman  had  escaped  Mr. 
Craig's  supervision  during  the  morning  hours  and 
had  stimulated  his  memory  with  unwise  potations. 

Bodewin  took  his  place  on  the  witness-stand  in 
a  general  silence  of  expectation.  The  real  con 
test  was  now  understood  to  have  begun. 

He  testified  that  he  had  surveyed  the  Uinta 

I  land   Eagle   Bird   claims   in   the   spring  of   187T. 

I  j 

:  That  he  had  believed  Harkins  to  be  the  owner  of 
both  claims  at  that  time,  although  the  record  of 
survey  for  the  Eagle  Bird  was  made  out  in  the 
name  of  James  Keesner. 

The  records  of  both  surveys,  preserved  in  Bode- 
win's  note-book,  were  produced  and  sworn  to  by 
him  and  examined  by  the  jury. 

Bodewin  was  shown  a  copy  of  the  present  rec 
ord,  and  swore  that  it  was  not  a  true  representa 
tion  of  the  two  claims.  He  explained  the  points 


THE  TRIAL.  295 

of  difference,  and  the  new  record  was  also 
given  to  the  jury  to  compare  with  the  original 
one. 

One  of  the  jurymen  asked  how  a  change  could 
be  made  in  a  record  on  paper  without  its  being 
evident  on  examination.  Bodewin  replied  that  a 
new  record  could  be  substituted,  giving  an  en 
tirely  different  description  of  the  same  property, 
the  records  of  the  camp  at  that  time  not  having 
been  bound  together,  but  kept  loosely,  each  one 
folded  separately,  in  a  candle-box,  as  a  former 
witness  had  testified. 

Here  Mr.  Craig  made  a  pause,  during  which  the 
witness  appeared  to  be  slightly  restless. 

"Mr.  Bodewin,"  the  counsel  for  the  defence 
began  again,  "  you  started  to  cross  the  range  on 
horseback  on  the  morning  of  the  5th  of  Septem 
ber?" 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  as  if  considering 
the  date,  Bodewin  answered :  "  Yes." 

"  Was  it  your  intention  in  starting  on  that  ride 
to  appear  as  a  witness  on  this  case,  then  called  for 
the  6th?" 

"  It  was." 

44  Why  did  you  not  fulfil  that  intention  ?  " 

"  I  was  prevented  from  doing  so." 


296  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"State  the  nature  of  the  impediment,  if  you 
please." 

"  It  was  of  the  nature  of  two  men,  armed  with 
pistols  and  rifles." 

"  With  these  weapons  pointed  at  you  ?  " 

"  The  pistols,  yes." 

"And  by  these  means  they  induced  you  to 
change  the  course  of  your  journey  ?  " 

"They  did." 

"  The  inducement  was  sufficient,  I  presume  ?  " 

Mr.  Craig  had  asked  his  questions  in  quick 
succession,  in  his  nervous  manner;  Bodewin 
replying  in  a  much  lower  voice,  with  a  curi 
ous,  defensive  expression  in  his  heavy-lidded 
eyes,  raised  not  quite  to  the  level  of  Mr. 
Craig's. 

"  Were  these  men  known  to  you  ?  " 

"  They  were  not." 

"Had  you  ever  seen  them  before?" 

"I  had  seen  one  of  them  once  before,  without 
knowing  his  name." 

"  State  where  on  the  road  between  here  and  the 
camp  you  met  with  this  impediment." 

"  It  was  not  on  the  direct  road  between  here 
and  the  camp." 

"Where  was  it?" 


THE  TRIAL.  297 

"  It  was  on  the  trail  which  joins  that  road  on 
the  other  side  of  the  pass." 

"  You  were  then  on  your  way  to  the  pass  ?  " 

"  No."  Bodewin  could  not  resist  a  pause  dur- 
ing  which  he  enjoyed  Mr.  Craig's  ill-concealed  dis 
comfiture,  arid  then  added  calmly :  "  I  had  nearly 
reached  the  foot  of  the  pass  when  I  was  overtaken 
by  one  of  these  men,  who  induced  me  to  return 
with  him  to  a  spot  in  the  timber  where,  he  said,  a 
man  lay  wounded  by  the  falling  of  his  horse,  who 
had  an  important  message  for  me  which  he  would 
only  deliver  in  person.  I  went  back  with  the  sup 
posed  messenger's  messenger,  by  the  way  of  this 
trail,  found  a  man  lying  on  the  ground,  appar 
ently  helpless  and  in  pain ;  I  dismounted  to  receive 
his  message  and  was  then  easily  made  prisoner." 

Bodewin  was  answering  with  reckless  prompt 
ness,  so  far  as  the  condition  of  his  promise  would 
permit.  If  Mr.  Craig,  in  the  insanity  of  his  zeal, 
insisted  upon  putting  questions  his  witness  could 
not  or  would  not  answer,  he  must  take  the  conse 
quences. 

"What  was  the  nature  of  that  message  they 
trapped  you  with,  Mr.  Bodewin  ?  " 

"It  was  of  a  personal  nature." 

Mr,  Craig  did  not  press  the  question,  though 


298  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

inwardly  raging  at  Bodewin's  impertinence,  and 
longing  for  an  opportunity  to  punish  it. 

"Were  you  forcibly  prevented  from  returning 
to  your  home  and  occupation  during  all  the  time 
you  were  absent  ?  " 

"  That  may  be  a  matter  of  opinion." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  was  constantly  kept  in  sight  by  one  or  both 
of  my  keepers,  they  carrying  weapons,  while  I 
•  was  unarmed.  They  informed  me  that  if  I  kept 
quiet  I  would  not  get  hurt,  the  inference  being 
that  if  I  did  not  keep  quiet,  I  would." 

"  Under  these  circumstances  you  naturally  kept 
pretty  quiet." 

Bode  win  did  not  smile  at  or  reply  to  this 
pleasantry. 

"Was  Colonel  Harkins's  name  mentioned  at 
any  time  between  you  and  your  captors  during 
the  time  of  your  confinement  ?  " 

"  It  was." 

"  Give  the  conversation  or  conversations  as 
nearly  as  you  can  recall  them  relating  to  Colonel 
Harkins." 

"  I  remember  but  one  conversation  in  which  his 
name  was  mentioned.  I  cannot  repeat  it  word 
for  word." 


THE   TRIAL.  299 

"  What  impression  did  it  leave  on  your  mind  as 
to  Harkins's  connection  with  your  capture  and 
imprisonment  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  said  that  I  was  imprisoned  —  " 

"  Your  restraint,  then." 

"  It  left  the  impression  that  Colonel  Harkins 
was  solely  responsible  for  both." 

"  Where  did  they  run  you  off  to  ?  "  one  of  the 
jurymen  asked. 

Mr.  Craig  interposed,  saying  that  his  witness 
did  not  wish  to  criminate  those  persons  who  had 
carried  into  execution  the  plan  of  his  abduction, 
regarding  them,  with  characteristic  magnanimity, 
as  tools  merely,  in  the  hands  of  a  power  much 
more  dangerous  than  themselves. 

"There  is  a  humane  breadth  of  view,"  Mr. 
Craig  continued,  permitting  himself  an  attempt 
at  sarcasm,  which  he  fancied  would  escape  every 
body  but  the  object  of  it,  "  a  humane  breadth  of 
view  which  but  few  of  us  can  boast  of,  which 
enables  us  to  sympathize  even  with  those  who 
have  tried  to  injure  us,  when  we  understand  and 
pity  their  circumstances.  We  look  upon  them 
as  injured  themselves,  in  proportion  as  they  are 
injuring  us,  by  their  enslavement  to  an  evil  in 
fluence  —  " 


300  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"  Oh,  that's  all  nonsense ! "  said  the  lively 
juryman.  "  Tell  us  where  they  hid  you !  " 

The  court  protected  Bodewin  in  refusing  to 
answer  the  question,  perhaps  because  it  interfered 
with  the  court's  dignity  for  jurors  to  assist  at  the 
examination  of  witnesses ;  but  an  unfavorable 
opinion  was  inevitably  formed  of  the  witness,  as  a 
person  of  high  moral  pretentious  and  unaccount 
able  reserves,  whose  own  actions  would  require 
close  watching. 

This  opinion  prevailed  thenceforward  among  the 
men  who  were  present,  but  the  women  generally 
respected  Bodewin  for  keeping  his  own  secrets 
and  protecting  his  enemies.  They  were  predis 
posed  towards  him  for  other  reasons,  that  would 
not  sound  so  well  in  statement.  They  liked  his 
youthful  slenderness  of  person,  the  easy  way  in 
which  he  wore  his  well-cut  clothes.  They  observ 
ed,  those  who  were  nearest  to  him,  that  his  hands, 
although  nearly  as  brown  as  an  Indian's,  were 
long,  smooth,  and  refined-looking.  They  liked  his 
Eastern  accent,  his  quiet  answers,  and  the  slum 
bering  intensity  of  expression,  impossible  to  de 
fine,  in  his  heavy-lidded,  grayish  eyes.  They  hoped 
he  would  come  off  well  on  the  cross-examination. 

The  court  now  took  a  recess. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  REBUTTAL. 

THE  afternoon  sitting  opened  cheerfully  with 
Bodewin's  cross-examination.  The  men  with  few 
exceptions  had  lunched,  and  with  vests  opened 
on  account  of  the  increasing  heat,  were  prepared 
to  enjoy  the  baiting  of  this  probably  conceited 
young  man,  who  took  such  airs  of  gloomy  reti 
cence  and  whose  information  seemed  to  be  so 
largely  in  excess  of  his  desire  to  impart  it. 

The  lawyer  for  the  plaintiff,  listening  with 
apparent  negligence  to  Bodewin's  account  of  his 
capture,  saw  that  it  was  a  tale  calling  for  but 
little  talent  in  the  cross-examination  to  make 
ridiculous  to  a  Western  jury.  It  had  excited 
marked  surprise  in  the  court-room  among  those 
present  who  knew  Bodewin  by  reputation  as  a 
cool  fellow  and  a  man  of  long  experience  in  the 
West,  well  acquainted  with  the  risk  of  solitary 
journeys  in  that  part  of  the  country,  at  a  time 
301 


302 

when  scarcely  a  week  passed  without  a  stage 
being  stopped  and  a  file  of  passengers  called  on 
to  "hold  up  their  hands."  The  weakness  of 
Bodewin's  story  was  brought  out  and  embellished 
with  local  allusions  and  such  wit  as  the  speaker 
had  at  his  command.  He  enlarged  upon  Bodewin's 
magnanimity,  as  Mr.  Craig  had  called  it,  towards 
his  captors.  Such  magnanimity  was  certainly 
unusual,  and  to  a  stranger,  unacquainted  with 
the  character  of  the  witness,  seemed  to  demand 
some  further  explanation,  besides  that  transcen 
dent  Christian  forbearance  which  the  learned 
counsel  on  the  other  side  had  attributed  to  his 
witness. 

Was  the  witness  quite  sure  that  he  had  not 
some  other  and  more  natural,  not  to  say  human 
reason  for  condoning  such  a  serious  and  exasper 
ating  offence  as  the  restraint  of  his  person  and 
actions,  at  a  time  when  both  were  imperatively 
required  elsewhere?  Had  captivity  by  chance 
been  sweetened  to  him?  We  are  commanded 
to  love  our  enemies,  but  no  law,  civil  or  religious, 
that  the  counsel  could  remember,  required  a  man 
to  keep  his  enemies'  secrets ;  especially  when 
they  were  secrets  of  a  nature  likely  to  be  damag 
ing  to  his  own  character.  There  were  usually  two 


THE   REBUTTAL.  303 

sides  to  bargains  of  that  kind.  "  Now,  as  to  that 
message,"  the  plaintiff's  counsel  asked  suddenly, 
in  the  hardest  of  his  nasal  tones,  "might  one 
ask,  since  it  was  of  so  personal  a  nature,  if  it  was 
a  message  from  a  lady?"  There  was  said  to  be  a 
lady  in  every  case ;  the  lawyer  hoped  this  case 
was  not  to  be  an  ungallant  exception  to  the  rule. 
Bodewin  was  again  supported  by  the  court  in  his 
refusal  to  answer,  but  the  lawyer's  wit  was  of  the 
kind  which  makes  the  average  juryman  grateful 
to  its  author.  The  weightier  but  less  amusing 
portions  of  Bodewin's  testimony  were  lost  sight 
of  in  the  story  of  his  capture,  which  could  ill 
bear  the  scrutiny  Harkins's  counsel  had  succeeded 
in  concentrating  upon  it,  while  calling  upon  the 
jury  to  wonder  at  the  witness's  reasons  for  twice 
refusing  to  answer  the  questions  put  to  him. 
The  juror  who  had  been  snubbed  by  the  court 
was  in  no  doubt  whatever  as  to  the  duplicity  of 
Bodewin's  character,  and  the  general  feeling  was 
against  him,  when  Mr.  Craig  said,  at  the  close  of 
his  examination :  — 

"Your  Honor,  this  rests  the  case  for  the 
defence." 

A  mingled  stir  of  relief  and  expectation  had 
begun  to  pervade  the  court-room,  when  the  plain- 


304  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

tiff's  counsel  rose  and  said  that  he  would  like  to 
introduce  a  few  witnesses  in  rebuttal.  People 
who  were  leaving  the  room  returned  to  their 
seats  again,  and  no  one  was  surprised  when  the 
name  of  James  Keesner  was  called.  They  would 
now  have  the  story  of  the  surveys  and  sale  of 
the  Eagle  Bird  over  again  from  Harkins's  side. 

James  Keesner  testified  that  on  the  5th  of 
September,  somewhere  about  noon,  John  Bodewin 
came  to  his  cabin  in  the  north  woods  near  the 
lake,  and  asked  him  to  let  him  stay  there  quietly 
until  the  Eagle  Bird  trial  was  over.  That  he  had 
known  Bodewin,  off  and  on,  for  some  years, 
through  Colonel  Harkins ;  that  Colonel  Harkiris 
had  said,  Bodewin  would  never  testify  against 
him  on  account  of  something  that  passed  between 
them  at  Deadwood  three  years  ago,  something 
about  a  woman,  that  Bodewin  didn't  want  talked 
about.  That  Bodewin  didn't  explain  to  them 
why  he  did  not  wish  to  go  on  the  trial,  but  just 
said  he  didn't  want  to  and  wouldn't,  and  wanted 
to  stay  there  till  the  trial  was  over.  That  Bode 
win  had  been  to  the  cabin  before,  not  often,  but 
once  or  twice  that  summer  as  he  was  passing 
through  the  woods.  The  cabin  had  been  built 
three  years  before,  when  they  were  working  the 


THE  REBUTTAL.  305 

claim  near  it ;  they  had  quit  work  on  the  claim 
for  a  year,  and  had  only  been  back  there  since 
spring.  That  they  lived  very  quiet  in  the  woods, 
Bodewin  keeping  close  to  the  cabin  on  account 
of  not  wanting  to  be  seen  by  any  one  passing. 
That  he  and  the  witness's  daughter  Louisa,  called 
Babe,  were  always  together,  he  helping  her  about 
her  work  or  just  sitting  around  looking  at  her. 
That  Babe  was  seventeen  and  worth  looking  at. 
She  wasn't  used  to  men  like  Bodewin,  that  called 
themselves  gentlemen.  That  a  year  or  so  before, 
Bodewin  had  sent  her  his  picture  in  joke  like,  by 
Harkins,  hearing  Harkins  say  what  a  beauty  she 
was  growing.  That  he  set  himself  to  make  her 
like  him.  That  it  was  easy  done.  That  he,  the 
witness,  had  been  troubled  about  the  way  things 
looked,  but  thought  it  best  not  to  say  any 
thing,  Bodewin  being  there  for  so  short  a  time 
and  Babe  as  innocent  as  the  day  she  was  born. 
That  he  was  watching  out  for  them,  the  evening 
before  they  went  off.  Bodewin  was  sitting  on 
the  bench  in  front  of  the  cabin,  talking  low  with 
Babe,  their  heads  close  together,  that  he  himself 
kept  walking  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  pulling 
on  his  old  pipe,  and  watching  out  behind  the 
trees ;  that  when  he  could  not  see  them  any 


306  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

longer  for  night  coming  on,  he  came  up  short  to 
them  and  ordered  them  into  the  house.  Bodewin 
had  looked  mad  and  gone  straight  to  bed.  Babe 
was  for  going  off  too,  but  he  had  kept  her  by  and 
given  her  a  talking  to. 

Perhaps  he  had  been  hard  on  her,  but  what 
was  a  man  to  do  with  such  foolishness  going  on, 
and  Babe  his  only  girl  and  her  mother  dead. 
He  described  the  situation  of  the  rooms  in  the 
cabin  and  went  on  with  his  story.  How  in  the 
morning,  early,  Tony  had  gone  out  for  water  and 
found  the  black  horse  was  missing  and  they  two 
the  only  ones  left  in  the  cabin.  Bodewin  was 
gone,  and  Babe  was  gone.  Her  bed  had  not 
been  slept  in.  The  boards  of  the  floor  had  been 
taken  up  to  make  room  for  Bodewin  to  crawl  up 
from  below.  If  his  girl  had  gone  wrong,  it  was 
the  fault  of  Bode  win's  ways,  different  to  what  she 
was  used  to,  and  his  being  continually  round 
trying  to  make  her  like  him,  and  she  having  no 
mother  or  woman  to  talk  to  her.  Any  one  who 
ever  saw  his  girl  could  see  she  was  a  good  girl. 
She  hadn't  had  any  chance,  anyhow,  to  be  any 
thing  else. 

Here  Keesner  paused  and  wiped  his  face  and 
beard.  His  lean  hands  were  trembling,  and  his 


THE   KEBTJTTAL.  307 

voice  was  hoarse  with  the  excitement  of  speech 
in  the  presence  of  so  large  and  attentive  an 
audience.  Under  his  unfeigned  trouble,  there 
was  the  satisfaction  of  being  himself  a  figure  of 
unwonted  importance  on  an  occasion  likely  to  be 
memorable  in  that  region. 

"  Did  I  ever  see  my  girl  again  ?  "  he  repeated. 
"  Never,  either  living  or  dead,  —  but  plenty  saw 
her.  There  isn't  a  man  from  the  camp  in  this 
room,  I  may  say,  but  has  seen  her,  and  can  speak 
to  what  I  say,  that  she  was  well-grown  and  hand 
some,  with  as  good  a  look  to  her  as  any  girl  need 
to  have.  Nobody  that  ever  saw  her  could  take 
her  for  any  poor  truck.  She  was  born  a  long 
ways  from  any  of  your  camps  or  cities,  either. 
She  knew  the  look  of  the  trees  better  than  she 
did  men's  looks.  She  was  easy  lied  to." 

Being  recalled  to  his  narrative,  Keesner  went 
on  to  say  that  Tony,  his  son,  wouldn't  eat  nor 
sleep,  but  was  hunting  Bodewin,  while  he  himself 
stayed  by,  in  case  Babe  should  come  home.  That 
in  the  afternoon  the  black  horse  came  straying 
back  through  the  woods,  the  saddle  on  but  the 
stirrups  crossed  over  the  saddle  and  the  bridle 
hanging  from  the  pommel.  That  the  next  after 
noon,  being  the  day  but  one  after  Babe  left, 


308  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

Harkins  rode  out  to  the  cabin  and  told  him  his 
girl  was  dead  —  dead,  but  first  deserted  by  the. 
man  that  led  her  away. 

"This  day  week,"  said  Keesner,  "my  girl  was 
buried  by  strangers.  She  was  stoned  to  death  by 
the  emptying  of  a  car  while  she  was  crossing  the 
waste-dump  up  at  the  Eagle  Bird,  where  she'd 
come  a-huntin'  for  John  Bodewin.  Gentlemen," 
said  the  witness,  turning  his  red,  convulsed  coun 
tenance  upon  the  jury,  "that  man  Bodewin 
walked  behind  my  girl's  dead  body  when  they 
carried  her  up  the  hill  to  the  mine ;  he  heard  all 
the  fuss  and  the  racket,  and  he  never  said  a  word. 
He  saw  her  layin'  there  for  the  whole  town  to 
stare  at  —  with  the  very  shoes  on  her  feet  she'd 
followed  him  in  away  from  her  home,  and  he 
never  said  a  word;  never  owned  to  it  he'd  ever 
set  eyes  on  her  before  —  never  once  said  she  was 
a  good  girl,  with  folks  of  her  own  belonging  to 
her.  He  let  them  say  what  they  would  of  her. 
She  was  nothin'  to  him  no  more." 

"Why  didn't  Colonel  Harkins  say  he  knew 
her?"  Keesner  repeated  in  answer  to  the  coun 
sel's  question.  "  Because  when  he  see  my  daugh 
ter  layin'  there,  and  nobody  to  claim  her,  he  knew 
it  meant  trouble,  the  kind  of  trouble  that's  better 


THE   KEBUTTAL.  309 

not  talked  of.  He  knowed  Babe  never  got  in  that 
shape  without  help.  'Who's  the  man? 'he  says 
to  me.  '  John  Bodewin's  the  man,'  I  says.  '  You 
want  to  git  even  with  him  ? '  he  says.  4  That's 
what  I'm  layin'  for,'  says  I.  '  Hold  on,  then. 
Wait,'  says  he,  'your  time'll  come.  Words  bite 
sharper  than  bullets  when  a  man's  thin-skinned.' 
And  I've  hel'  on  and  I've  waited,  and  now  I've 
said  my  say,  and  you  can  ask  Anthony,  my  son 
there,  if  every  word  ain't  God's  truth." 

Mr.  Craig  sat  stupefied,  making  no  effort  to 
impede  the  witness  or  arrest  his  words  by  timely 
objections.  The  case  had  gone  out  of  his  hands 
and  beyond  him.  It  was  no  longer  a  question  offr 
Mr.  Newbold's  property,  but  of  John  Bodewin's 
honor.  The  lady  who  sat  next  to  Josephine  was 
weeping  hysterically.  Men  were  muttering  to 
gether.  Mr.  Craig,  fearing  that  Keesner's  story 
might  only  gain  strength  on  investigation,  and 
seeing  that  the  witness  had  the  whole  court  with 
him,  waived  his  right  of  cross-questioning,  and 
the  next  witness  was  called. 

In  the  conference  before  the  trial,  between 
Harkins  and  the  Keesners,  in  the  cabin  in  the 
wood,  Tony  had  stipulated  that  "Dad"  should 
"do  the  lyin'."  He  "was  used  to  it"  — as  for 


310  JOHN   BODE  WIN'S   TESTIMONY. 

himself,  the  less  talking  they  made  him  do  the 
better.  Harkins  had  accepted  Tony's  estimate  of 
his  own  powers,  and  he  was  not  called  upon  to 
corroborate  the  more  fanciful  portions  of  his 
father's  narrative.  But  the  parts  which  Harkins 
had  supplied,  assuring  his  confederates  that  they 
were  necessary  to  complete  Bodewin's  disgrace, 
were  not  the  strongest  parts  of  James  Keesner's 
story.  There  remained  enough  which  Tony  could 
savagely  confirm  without  fear  of  entanglement. 

There  was  only  one  more  witness  for  the  rebut 
tal.  The  friendship  between  Bodewin  and  Hill- 
bury  was  not  generally  known  to  the  excited 
group  of  people  who  awaited  the  next  develop 
ment  in  this  singular  trial ;  but  to  one  or  two  of 
those  whose  suspense  was  keenest,  the  painfulness 
of  the  scene  reached  its  climax  when  the  name  of 
Edward  Wales  Hillbury  was  called  by  the  counsel 
for  the  plaintiff. 

Mr.  Craig  was  sharply  roused  by  it.  His  old 
dislike  for  Bodewin,  lately  intensified  by  their 
mutual  relations,  had  never  been  inconsistent  with 
respect.  He  looked  at  Bodewin  keenly,  and  said 
to  himself,  "Here  has  been  some  cruel  lying. 
Hillbury  will  be  sorry  for  what  he  is  going  to  do, 
if  he  could  have  helped  doing  it.  I'll  make  him 


THE   KEBUTTAL.  311 

sorry  for  it !  "  the  perverse  little  lawyer  vowed  to 
himself.  Now  that  there  seemed  to  be  abundant 
cause  for  distrusting  Bodewin,  he  suddenly  felt 
himself  bound  to  do  battle  for  him.  Besides, 
Bodewin  was  his  witness. 

Hillbury's  direct  examination  brought  out  the 
fact  of  his  accidental  visit  to  the  cabin  in  the 
woods  and  his  interview  with  Babe,  including  the 
incident  of  Bodewin's  photograph.  Babe  had 
informed  her  father  of  this  visit  in  detail,  know 
ing  him  to  be  engaged  in  a  plot  of  some  kind 
against  the  original  of  the  picture,  and  hoping 
that  it  might  frighten,  or  possibly  deter  him 
through  fear  of  discovery.  Keesner  had  treasured 
up  his  daughter's  communication  as  likely  to  be 
interesting  to  Harkins.  Harkins  had  found  it 
extremely  interesting,  and  the  result  of  Babe's 
warning  had  been  Hillbury's  summons  to  testify 
against  his  friend. 

The  counsel  then  asked  Hillbury  if  Mr.  Bode 
win  had  ever  said  anything  to  him  which  would 
lead  him  to  suppose  that  Colonel  Harkins  had  any 
hold  upon  him.  Hillbury  replied  with  evident 
reluctance  that  Mr.  Bodewin  had  once  said  that 
he  was  under  an  obligation  to  Colonel  Harkins. 
Repeated  questions  forced  from  him  the  admis- 


312 

sion  that  Mr.  Bodewin  had  spoken  of  the  obliga 
tion  as  a  delicate  and  strenuous  one,  but  added 
that  Mr.  Bodewin  often  used  extravagant  expres 
sions  in  speaking  of  quite  simple  matters,  and 
declared  that  he  had  attached  no  particular  im 
portance  to  the  words. 

"  At  the  time,"  the  counsel  suggested. 

"  At  the  time,"  Hillbury  allowed  the  suggestion. 

"At  any  subsequent  time  did  you  regard  them 
more  seriously  ?  " 

"  When  Mr.  Bodewin  was  suddenly  missing,  I 
naturally  recalled  everything,  even  the  slightest 
noteworthy  thing,  connected  with  him  that  had 
happened  near  the  time  of  his  disappearance,  this 
conversation  among  others." 

Hillbury  then  identified  the  unknown  girl  who 
was  killed  at  the  Eagle  Bird  mine  as  the  one  he 
had  seen  and  talked  with  in  the  cabin.  When 
asked  if  Mr.  Bodewin  had  ever  spoken  to  him  of 
this  girl  or  of  the  cabin,  the  witness  replied  that 
he  had  not. 

"You  were  then  greatly  surprised  to  find  his 
photograph  there,  were  you  not?"  the  counsel 
asked. 

"I  was." 

"  Did  you  ever  question  him  about  it  ?  " 


THE  BEBUTTAL.  313 

44 1  did  not." 

"Why  not?" 

"  For  one  reason,  there  was  no  opportunity  to 
do  so,  between  the  time  of  my  visit  to  the  cabin 
and  Mr.  Bodewiii's  disappearance." 

"You  have  had  opportunities  since  his  return 
to  speak  to  him  about  it,  have  you  not?" 

"I  have." 

"Still  you  made  no  allusion  to  this  incident 
which  was  such  a  matter  of  surprise  to  you  ?  " 

44  No,  not  directly  ?  " 

44  Have  you  ever  in  any  way  invited  his  confi 
dence  on  this  subject?  " 

44  In  a  general  way  I  have  invited  his  confidence 
on  this  and  other  subjects." 

44 Did  he  respond?" 

44  He  did  not.  But,  it  may  be  that  my  manner 
was  at  fault.  One  is  not  always  happy  on  such 
occasions;  and  it  has  never  been  my  habit  to 
press  inquiries  of  a  personal  nature  upon  my 
friends." 

44  And  you  wish  I  would  be  equally  conside 
rate  with  you  — "  the  counsel  concluded  with 
a  flourish  of  courtesy.  "  That  will  do,  Mr.  Hill- 
bury." 

Mr.    Craig    began    his     cross-examination     by 


314  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

asking  Hillbury  how  long  lie  had  known  Mr. 
Bode  win. 

"  Fifteen  years,"  was  the  reply. 

"Had  their  relations  during  that  time  been 
friendly?" 

"Yes." 

"Invariably?" 

"Yes." 

What  were  their  relations  at  the  present  time  ? 
Hillbury's  momentary  hesitation  was  covered  by 
an  objection  promptly  raised  by  the  opposite  coun 
sel.  The  question  was  allowed,  and  Hillbury  re 
plied  that  he  was  not  in  a  position  to  say  how  Mr. 
Bodewin  might  regard  him  at  that  moment,  but 
the  answer  had  the  effect  of  an  evasion,  and  Mr. 
Craig  felt  that  he  had  gained  his  first  point.  How 
was  it,  he  next  asked,  that  a  friend  of  Mr.  Bode- 
win's,  one  who  had  been  his  friend  for  fifteen 
years,  had  made  no  search  for  him,  when  he  was 
missing  under  circumstances  calculated  to  excite 
the  gravest  apprehensions  for  his  safety  ? 

Mr.  Hillbury  replied  that  the  organized  search 
set  on  foot  by  the  town  stood  a  better  chance  of 
success,  in  cases  of  that  kind,  than  would  a  single 
individual,  even  with  the  stimulus  of  his  friend 
ship  for  the  object  of  the  search. 


THE   REBUTTAL.  315 

"The  organized  search,"  Mr.  Craig  retorted, 
"  consisted  of  three  or  four  men  who  rode  about 
the  country,  and  drank  a  little  more  whiskey  than 
usual  for  a  few  days;  the  search  then  resolved 
itself  into  gossip  about  Bodewin's  character  and 
intentions,  and  bets  as  to  his  probable  fate.  Was 
that  enough  to  satisfy  a  friendship  of  fifteen 

o  ?} 

years : 

"  I  did  not  say  that  it  was,"  Mr.  Hillbury  replied. 

"Well,  was  it?" 

"In  my  own  case,  it  was  not." 

"  What  further  effort,  if  any,  did  you  make  to 
find  your  friend  ?  " 

"  I  went  in  search  of  him  myself." 

"  Oh,  indeed !  And  how  much  time,  pray,  did 
you  give  to  this  individual  search?"  asked  Mr. 
Craig,  who  knew  that  Hillbury  had  been  seen  in 
camp  or  its  neighborhood  nearly  every  day  during 
Bodewin's  absence. 

"  A  little  more  than  half  a  day." 

"I  suppose  you  found  him,"  Mr.  Craig  said, 
with  an  ironical  glance  at  the  jury. 

Mr.  Hillbury  made  no  response  to  this  supposi 
tion. 

"Were  you  satisfied  with  the  result  of  your 
half-a-day's  search?" 


316  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

"In  one  sense,  yes." 

"  In  what  sense  was  that  ?  " 

"  In  the  sense  that  I  found  him." 

A  sensation  in  the  court,  in  the  midst  of  which 
Mr.  Craig's  irony  was  extinguished. 

"Where  did  you  find  him?"  he  asked  mechani 
cally,  while  desperately  trying  to  arrange  his 
future  questions,  in  case  Hillbury's  answer  should 
turn  out  to  be  as  bad  as  he  feared. 

"  In  the  cabin  in  the  North  woods." 

"  Which  cabin  ?  " 

"  The  one  I  have  already  described  where  I  saw 
the  photograph  of  Mr.  Bodewin." 

"What  was  Mr.  Bodewin  doing  when  you 
found  him,  as  you  say?"  Mr.  Craig  'was  now 
trusting  to  the  chance  of  getting  the  witness 
involved  by  rapidly  multiplying  unimportant 
questions.  Hillbury's  pale  countenance  facing 
him  began  to  show  signs  of  distress.  Mr.  Craig 
pressed  the  question. 

"  What  was  he  doing  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  was  doing,"  said  Hill- 
bury,  with  a  kind  of  violence. 

44  How  near  were  you  to  him  ?  " 

"  Twice  as  far  from  him,  perhaps,  as  I  am  from 
you." 


THE   REBUTTAL.  317 

"  Yet  you  don't  know  what  he  was  doing  ! 
Did  you  ask  him?" 

"  I  did  not  speak  to  him." 

"  You  did  not  speak  to  him  !  What  did  you 
do,  pray  ?  " 

"I  looked  at  him,  and  then  went  back  to  my 
horse,  mounted  and  rode  away." 

"  A  singular  and  touching  interview,  truly, 
between  friends  of  fifteen  years,  one  of  whom 
had  been  missing  for  some  time  under  an  im 
plication  of  danger.  Was  Mr.  Bodewin  alone 
when  you  saw  him  and  were  too  much  over 
come,  as  I  conclude,  by  your  feelings,  to  speak  to 
him?" 

"He  was  not." 

"  Who  was  with  him  ?  " 

"  A  young  woman." 

"  Any  one  else  ?  " 

"  To  all  appearances  they  were  alone." 

"Were  they  talking  together?" 

"No." 

"  Well,  *  to  all  appearances '  what  were  they 
doing  ? "  Mr.  Craig  went  on  stupidly ;  but  a 
strange  look  in  Hillbury's  face,  almost  like  a 
warning  unspoken,  arrested  him.  "  Did  Mr. 
Bodewin  see  you,  or  know  of  your  neighbor- 


318  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

hood  ? "  lie    hurried   on,  trying  to  bury  the   pre 
vious  question  in  a  new  one. 

"I  do  not  think  he  did,"  said  Hillbury, 
dropping  his  eyes.  He  knew  that  Craig  had 
understood  him  at  last,  and  that  the  ordeal  was 
over. 

But  Craig  could  not  accept  his  defeat  without 
one  more  effort. 

"  You  were  there,  then,  not  to  find  your  friend 
but  to  spy  upon  his  actions  ?  " 

"  I  was  there  to  find  him,  to  help  him  if  he 
needed  such  help  as  I  alone  could  give  him,  to 
procure  additional  help  if  required.  Finding 
him  safe  and  apparently  happy,  I  did  not 
offer  my  services.  The  offer  of  my  society  it 
seemed  better,  under  the  circumstances,  to  post 
pone." 

"Have  you  ever  described  this  incident 
before?" 

"  I  have   never   spoken   of    it   until   to-day." 

"  You  seem  to  have  saved  it  carefully  for  the 
time  when  it  would  be  most  likely  to  injure  your 
friend  of  fifteen  years." 

"  That  is  your  inference,  for  which  I  am  not 
responsible." 

Hillbury  was  released,  inwardly  cursing  Craig 


THE   REBUTTAL.  319 

for  a  "  rash,  intruding  fool,"  and  writhing  under 
his  own  revolting  part  in  the  day's  work.  And 
Craig  could  think  of  nothing  that  would  have 
made  things  worse,  except  to  have  had  his  wife 
present  to  witness  his  blunders. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  NIGHT  AFTER   THE   TRIAL. 

IT  was  the  talk  of  the  town  that  evening  that 
Harkins  had  won  his  suit,  Bodewin,  the  chief  wit 
ness  for  the  defence,  having  forsworn  himself,  and 
his  testimony  having  been  practically  set  aside  by 
the  jury.  That  there  had  been  shameful  disclo 
sures  as  to  his  character.  That  Tony  Keesner, 
brother  of  the  girl  he  had  wronged,  was  hunting 
for  Bodewin,  swearing  he  would  shoot  him  at 
sight.  Bets  were  being  offered  in  every  drinking- 
saloon  of  the  city  as  to  the  result  of  the  meeting. 
The  town  seemed  to  have  emptied  itself  into  the 
streets,  at  this  hour  of  coolness  and  gayety. 
Children's  voices  were  shrill  in  the  gardened 
suburbs ;  the  light  rush  of  wheels  was  loud  and 
low,  in  quick  alternation,  on  the  broad  avenues 
looking  outward  from  the  city.  A  wind  from  the 
mountains,  setting  across  the  sun-warmed  plain, 
revived  with  its  wild,  sweet  breath  the  day's  lan 
guors. 

320 


THE  NIGHT  AFTEK   THE  TRIAL.  321 

How  many  heart-breaks  go  to  make  up  that 
song  of  a  city  at  night !  On  her  bed,  that  loomed 
white  in  the  darkened  room,  Josephine  lay  and 
listened  to  this  voice  of  many  voices,  dream-like, 
far  away  from  that  burning  core  of  anguish  which 
was  the  centre  of  her  being.  Shame  could  not  \ 
approach  Bodewin  as  he  lived  in  her  thoughts. 
Pie  had  loved  the  girl  who  was  dead,  there  had 
been  a  necessity  for  secrecy,  everything  had  been 
misjudged  and  misrepresented,  and  Bodewin  had 
been  too  proud  or  too  wretched  to  explain.  That 
he  had  been  base  it  was  out  of  the  power  of  the 
woman  who  loved  him  to  believe.  That  he  loved 
the  girl  whose  beauty  still  ached  in  Josephine's 
remembrance,  she  could  well  believe.  That  her 
death  had  complicated  his  position  in  some  cruel 
way,  she  could  understand  —  or  rather  she  tried, 
to  understand  nothing  ;  she  believed  and  suffered. ; 
But  the  dumb  cry  of  her  anguish  was  not  for  her 
self —  it  was  for  Bodewin.  Where  was  he  that 
night?  What  had  been  left  to  him ?  Everything 
was  gone,  and  there  lived  not  a  soul  who  could 
comfort  him.  She  had  dreamed  that  they  two 
were  strangely,  perhaps  perilously,  sympathetic, 
but  while  she  had  been  balancing  her  maidenly 
subtleties  of  conduct,  the  current  of  his  life  had 


322 


sunk  out  of  sight,  like  those  rivers  that  run  along 
in  sunshine  and  then  suddenly  disappear  in  the 
quicksands. 

About  nine  o'clock  that  evening,  in  one  of  the 
thoroughfares  of  the  town,  two  pistol-shots  were 
heard,  fired  in  quick  succession.  Word  was 
borne  from  street  to  street,  with  a  clamor  of 
voices  and  a  hurry  of  feet,  that  Harking  in  the 
hour  of  his  triumph  was  dead.  It  reached  the 
great,  gaslit  house,  with  its  tiers  of  balconied 
windows,  open  to  the  night,  where  Josephine 
lay;  it  floated  up  from  smoking-room  to  parlor, 
and  pervaded  the  corridors  in  bursts  of  excited 
talk.  It  reached  Josephine's  door  in  a  sound  of 
imperative  knocking.  She  started  up.  Her 
father  spoke  to  her  from  the  passage.  She 
rose  and  opened  the  door.  The  room  was  faintly 
lighted  from  the  street. 

"  Sitting  in  the  dark,  Jose  ? "  her  father  said, 
reaching  for  her  hand.  "  I  hoped  you  were  in  bed 
and  asleep,  but  I  came  up,  thinking  you  might 
have  been  wakened  by  the  stir  in  the  house.  A 
dreadful  thing  has  happened.  The  town  is  ring 
ing  with  it !  Did  you  hear  the  shots  ?  " 

Josephine  did  not  answer. 

Her  father  had  drawn  her  down  upon  his  lap, 


THE   NIGHT    4FTER   THE   TRIAL.  323 

in  the  great  chair  he  had  sunk  into.  He  sighed, 
and  rubbed  his  handkerchief  over  his  damp  fore 
head. 

"  That  last  shot  sent  Harkins  to  his  account !  " 

"  Who  — "  Josephine  began,  and  the  great 
dread  in  her  eyes  finished  the  question. 

"He  and  that  young  Keesner  were  in  some 
place  drinking  together,  or  Keesner  was  drinking 
and  Harkins  was  keeping  watch  of  him.  Keesner 
saw  Bodewin  pass  on  the  street.  He  rushed  out 
and  fired  one  shot  at  him,  and  missed.  Harkins 
followed  him  and  grabbed  him  from  behind,  be 
fore  he  could  shoot  again.  Keesner  whirled,  and 
in  the  struggle  Harkins  got  the  second  barrel. 
They  fell  together,  Harkins  underneath.  He 
never  spoke.  Keesner's  friends  got  him  away 
before  the  police  came  up.  But  Harkins  got 
what  was  meant  for  Bodewin.  Why,  Jose 
phine  ! " 

Josephine  was  sobbing  on  her  father's  neck. 
"  Thank  God  !  "  she  whispered,  not  knowing  that 
she  had  spoken. 

Bodewin  had  brought  his  horse  down  from  the 
mountains,  intending  to  leave  him  on  a  ranch  for 
the  winter.  He  had  himself  expected  to  go  East 
after  the  trial ;  but  now  he  had  no  plans,  only  to 


324  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

get  out  of  the  town  as  quickly  as  possible,  and 
alone.  Across  the  plains  many  roads  and  trails 
led  towards  the  distant  mountain  passes,  to  the 
South  and  West. 

Baldy  had  found  a  trail  and  was  following  it, 
with  his  head  low,  his  ears  playing  backwards 
and  forwards,  knowing  that  his  master  had  given 
him  the  direction  of  their  course,  and  intelligently 
responsive  to  the  trust. 

Where  he  was  going,  what  he  was  going  to  do, 
Bodewin  did  not  yet  know.  It  was  enough  for 
the  present  that  he  was  in  motion.  But  the 
motion  was  not  so  rapid  or  so  exciting  as  to 
take  the  place  of  thought.  The  darkness  was 
peopled  with  faces,  poignant  with  wounded  sur 
prise  or  reproach  or  contempt,  their  looks  all 
concentrated  upon  himself  as  in  a  nightmare. 
Babe  Keesner's  face  he  saw  more  constantly  and 
vividly  than  any  other.  Although  he  could  not 
definitely  accuse  himself,  his  conscience  was  not 
clear  when  he  thought  of  her.  Of  all  who  had 
suffered  through  him,  she  had  suffered  most,  and 
she  had  lost  everything.  Now  that  it  was  too 
late  he  could  see  the  madness  of  his  course  with 
regard  to  her  —  the  blind  pertinacity  with  which 
he  had  kept  that  wild  and  foolish  promise  her 


THE    XIGHT  AFTER   THE   TRIAL.  325 

death  had  extorted  from  him.  From  the  night  j l 
when  he  followed  the  wagon  that  bore  her  body: 
to  the  camp,  he  had  felt  that  he  was  marked  for 
trouble;  but  he  had  not  foreseen  that  it  could 
involve  any  one  but  himself.  He  might  have 
asked  for  another  hearing  at  the  trial,  for  Babe's 
sake  if  not  for  his  own,  but  he  could  not  have 
gone  on  the  witness  stand  again  without  being 
summoned  and  questioned  by  Craig  —  Craig  who 
could  not  know  what  questions  to  ask,  and 
whose  capacity  for  blundering  might  be  measured 
by  his  cross-examination  of  Hillbury.  He  would 
not  have  been  allowed  to  tell  an  uninterrupted 
story  without  a  running  fire  of  objections  from  the 
opposite  counsel.  He  had  no  proofs  to  offer  that 
easy  and  cynical  crowd  to  which  his  appeal  must 
have  been  made,  except  his  own  word,  and  that 
had  been  broken  down  before  them.  These  were 
some  of  the  excuses  which  Bode  win  made  for  a 
silence  which  covered  so  much  wrong  and  pain ; 
but  the  true  explanation  of  it  lay  deeper  than  all 
his  reasons,  in  the  nature  of  the  man  himself. 
No  one  who  knew  him  well  would  have  been 
surprised  that  he  was  silent  —  after  hearing  his 
reputation  sworn  away  before  an  assemblage  of 
men  ready,  to  a  man,  to  believe  him  guilty,  even 


326  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

had  he  felt  that  there  was  a  single  person  present 
to  whom  his  disgrace  mattered  more  than  to  Hill- 
bury  —  Hillbury,  whose  testimony  had  completed 
the  case  against  him. 

Bodewin's  anguish,  when  he  thought  of  Jose 
phine,  left  no  room  for  conjecture  as  to  what 
she  might  have  felt  in  witnessing  his  shame. 
The  trial  scene  had  branded  him  for  life.  The 
infamy  of  it  was  known  to  but  a  few  people,  but 
it  would  spread.  Already  he  could  hear  the 
story  of  it  repeated  in  every  city  where  he  had 
ever  been  known.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done 
but  to  live  it  down  in  the  years  that  were  left  to 
him  of  his  life.  He  felt  already  old,  and  yet  as  if 
he  should  never  die.  In  the  meantime  he  would 
do  Babe  the  justice  and  give  himself  the  consola 
tion  of  telling  the  true  story  to  Josephine.  That 
she  would  believe  him,  without  proofs,  he  did  not 
doubt.  Such  generous  belief  was  one  of  the 
necessities  of  her  nature.  He  would  get  away 
into  some  corner  of  the  world  where  he  was  not 
known,  and  think  it  all  over  and  write  her  a 
letter.  Already  there  was  a  strange,  poor  com 
fort  in  the  thought. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

JOSEPHINE  AND   HILLBURY. 

JOSEPHINE  had  been  home  nearly  a  month 
when  Bodewin's  letter  came.  It  was  a  thick 
letter  with  the  postmark  only  of  some  railroad 
on  the  envelope.  She  opened  it,  with  the  joyless 
certainty  that  she  was  to  read  the  story  of  Babe 
Keesner  written  by  her  unhappy  lover.  There 
were  a  number  of  sheets  closely  written  without 
date  or  signature,  and  within  them  was  a  note 
addressed  to  herself.  She  read :  — 

"  MY  DEAK  Miss  NEWBOLD  :  When  I  asked  you  on  the  night 
of  Babe  Keesner' s  death  if  you  could  still  have  faith  in  me, 
even  if  circumstances  condemned  me,  I  spoke  in  weakness, 
foreseeing  what  some  of  the  consequences  of  that  night  were 
likely  to  be,  and  feeling  that  the  one  thing  I  could  not  bear 
was  that  you  should  doubt  me.  It  is  a  consolation  to  me,  even 
now,  to  remember  how  readily  and  cordially  you  replied  to  my 
presumptuous  claim  upon  your  faith.  You  were  in  distress 
yourself  that  night.  I  frightened  and  bewildered  you,  yet  I 
remember  you  did  not  shrink  from  me  or  evade  my  selfish 
question.  You  must  have  thought  of  it  in  the  court-room,  and 
it  must  have  seemed  to  you  a  shameless  and  paltry  advantage 
327 


328  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

for  me  to  have  taken  of  your  generosity.     I  dare  not  picture  to 
myself  all  that  you  must  have  thought  of  me  that  day. 

"And  yet  I  know  —  God  knows  how  I  know  it  —  that  you 
will  not  doubt  the  truth  of  what  I  ask  you  here  to  read,  —  the 
inclosed  story  of  my  unhappy  acquaintance  with  the  Keesner 
family,  from  the  hour  of  my  capture  by  the  father  and  son,  to 
my  last  words  with  the  daughter  before  her  death.  No  one 
who  believed  Keesner' s  story  would  have  believed  mine,  had  I 
insisted  upon  telling  it  in  the  court-room  to  save  Babe's  good 
name  and  my  own  ;  there  were  other  reasons  why  I  could  not 
tell  it  there  and  then. 

"  I  put  it  in  your  hands  now,  to  repeat  to  whom  it  may  con 
cern,  or,  if  you  think  better,  to  keep  as  a  trust  from  one 
woman  to  another,  conveyed  to  you  by  me.  For  it  is  not  so 
much  my  story  as  the  story  of  Babe  Keesner.  My  own  story  I 
have  already  told  you  —  all  but  the  end  of  it.  It  ends  in  my 
hopeless  love  for  you. 

"Yours,  JOHN  TRISTRAM  BODEWIN." 

The  story  Josephine  put  carefully  away  for 
the  time  when  it  should  be  needed;  but  the 
letter,  that  was  from  Bodewin  to  herself  alone, 
she  kept  always  with  her  and  read  over  and  over 
the  words  in  which  he  had  called  himself  her 
lover.  For  a  little  while  the  joy  of  knowing  as 
well  as  trusting  that  he  was  guiltless,  and  the 
more  selfish  joy  of  knowing  herself  beloved, 
helped  her  to  bear  the  thought  of  his  self-exile ; 
but  soon  she  began  to  ask  herself,  each  day  with 
a  sharper  anxiety,  how  long  that  exile  was  to  last. 
He  had  cut  himself  off  from  any  hope  of  an 


JOSEPHINE   AND   HILLBUBY.  329 

answer  to  his  letter.  She  knew  not  where  he 
had  hidden  himself.  She  searched  the  papers 
for  personal  items  from  the  remotest  states  and 
territories,  and  often  her  heart  stood  still  at  the 
glimpse  of  a  name,  and  she  feared  to  read  the 
record  of  some  lonely  death,  in  the  tragedy  of 
which  she  had  no  part.  She  could  not  bring 
herself  to  show  Bodewin's  letter  to  her  father,  — 
his  justification  in  that  quarter  she  felt  must  come 
through  some  one  else  besides  herself.  Her  life 
was  full  of  duties  and  little  cares  that  once  had 
made  her  sufficiently  happy,  but  now  it  seemed 
to  her  like  the  swollen  November  currents  of  the 
river  that  flowed  past  her  window,  —  heavily 
circling  and  swooning  back  upon  itself,  yet  borne 
helplessly  onward. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Hillbury,  on  his 
way  to  New  York,  passed  through  Kansas  City 
and  stopped  over  one  train  for  the  sake  of  seeing 
Josephine.  He  sent  her  a  note  from  his  hotel  on 
the  morning  of  his  arrival,  asking  her  permission 
to  call  in  the  afternoon. 

Josephine  welcomed  this  opportunity  as  the 
one  she  had  long  waited  for.  Hillbury,  of  all 
others,  was  the  one  whom  it  most  concerned  to 
hear  Babe  Keesner's  story  —  the  one  it  most 


330  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

behooved  to  cancel,  as  far  as  might  be,  the  wrong 
that  had  been  done.  She  would  not  trust  herself 
with  Bodewin's  defence.  Hillbury  should  have 
the  story  as  it  had  been  given  to  her,  in  the  words 
of  Bodewin''s  letter. 

In  the  weeks  since  the  trial,.  Hillbury  had  been 
settling  with  himself  in  regard  to  Josephine.  He 
had  come  to  a  decision  none  the  less  impassioned 
that  it  was  tardy  and  deliberate.  He  loved  her ; 
she  was  everything  his  wife  should  be,  except 
that  in  some  ways  she  needed  development.  He 
felt  that  he  was  singularly  fitted  for  the  happy 
task  of  aiding  that  development.  It  was  not  in 
Hillbury 's  nature  to  be  humble,  even  in  his  love. 
Why  should  he  be,  indeed?  He  was  thoroughly 
equipped  and  disciplined  for  exact  work  and 
refined  enjoyment,  for  appreciation  or  for  judg 
ment  ;  why  not  for  love  ?  Each  separate  problem 
of  his  life  as  it  presented  itself  had  been  solved 
by  him  in  the  most  satisfactory  manner.  The 
problem  next  in  order  was  this  beautiful  young 
woman,  whose  divine  capacity  for  love  he  believed 
in  and  longed  to  prove.  He  had  watched  the 
progress  of  Bodewin's  influence  over  her,  at  first 
with  curiosity  but  later  with  deepening  unrest. 
That  influence  was  at  an  end  now  —  it  never 


JOSEPHINE  AND  HILLBURY.  331 

occurred  to  Hillbury  that  it  could  have  survived 
the  revelations  of  the  trial.  The  juxtaposition  of 
his  own  happiness,  supposing  happiness  to  be  in 
store  for  him,  with  his  friend's  downfall  was 
painful.  But  life  was  full  of  such  pain,  and 
the  Nemesis  that  had  overtaken  Bodewin  could 
not.be  appeased  by  any  private  renunciations  of 
his  own. 

Did  Hillbury  but  know  it,  his  sorrow  for  his 
friend,  and  the  trouble  of  mind  it  had  cost  him, 
together  with  his  own  share  in  Bodewin's  con 
demnation,  had  done  much  to  soften  his  pride  of 
individuality,  and  to  widen  the  gate  of  his  well- 
guarded  heart  for  love  to  creep  in. 

He  was  surprised  to  find  how  nervous  he  was 
becoming,  while  he  waited  for  Josephine  after 
sending  up  his  card. 

He  watched  her  with  keen  pleasure  as  she 
came  down  the  long  room  to  meet  him.  Her 
beauty  impressed  him  not  more  than  her  earnest 
ness  and  entire  unconsciousness  of  herself.  She 
did  not  smile,  but  her  face  showed  a  gladness  that 
was  almost  exaltation.  Hillbury  was  not  humble, 
but  he  was  honest  and  clear-sighted.  He  could 
not  take  that  unexpected  deep  joy  in  her  face  all 
to  himself.  He  would  have  to  come  many  times 


332  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

to  see  her  before  he  would  have  earned  such  a 
beautiful  look  of  greeting  as  that.  It  troubled 
him  to  think  of  the  unknown  agencies  that  might 
be  swaying  her  life  away  from  him,  even  during 
these  moments  she  was  apparently  giving  to  him. 
She  held  a  bulky  letter,  which  she  kept  in  her 
hands,  bending  and  crushing  it,  while  she  replied 
to  his  inquiries  about  her  father  and  the  incidents 
of  their  journey.  For  some  time  they  talked  of 
indifferent  things,  carefully,  on  Hillbury's  part, 
avoiding  any  allusion  to  their  common  experi 
ences  in  the  camp,  or  to  any  person  connected 
with  them.  It  was  Hillbury's  intention  to  com 
mence  again  on  a  new  basis  with  Josephine,  ignor 
ing  as  far  as  possible  the  unfortunate  beginning 
of  their  acquaintance  —  ignoring  it  until  they  had 
become  intimate  enough  to  return  to  it  from  a 
common  point  of  view.  Then  they  would  talk  of 
it  together,  with  assured  sympathy,  as  of  every 
thing  else  in  both  of  their  lives  that  had  been 
remembered  with  pleasure  or  with  pain.  This 
thought  stealing  into  his  mind  was  almost  confus 
ing  in  its  sweetness.  There  was  a  little  silence. 
Then  Josephine  bent  towards  him  suddenly,  her 
hands  clasped  over  the  letter  in  her  lap.  "  We 
are  thinking  of  the  same  thing,  I  know.  Why 


JOSEPHINE   AND   HILLBURY.  333 

should  we  not  speak  of  it  ?  "  she  said,  looking 
almost  imploringly  at  Hillbury. 

"Of  what  are  you  thinking?  "he  asked. 

"  Of  the  day  when  I  saw  you  last.  It  seems  to 
me  I  have  thought  of  nothing  else  ever  since." 
She  did  not  see  that  her  words  were  a  blow  to 
Hillbury.  "I  know,"  she  went  on,  "how  you 
must  have  suffered  in  doing  what  they  made  you 
do.  It  was  worse  for  you  almost  than  for  your 
friend.  For  you  believed  he  had  sinned,  and  he 
knew  that  he  had  not." 

She  gave  Hillbury  a  moment  in  which  to  speak, 
but  he  was  silent. 

"  How  strange  it  is,"  she  continued,  with  an 
absent  look  of  pain,  "  that  the  truth  can  be  more 
cruelly  false  even  than  falsehood  itself.  The 
proofs  were  terrible,  but  it  was  the  proofs  that 
lied." 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  Hillbury  asked, 
sternly.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  now  on  his  own 
defence. 

"  I  have  the  true  story  here,  in  his  own  words 
—  all  'those  fatal  omissions  he  was  obliged  to 
make ;  they  are  all  explained  here."  She  half 
opened  the  letter  and  held  it  towards  Hillbury. 
"  You  are  to  read  it,"  she  urged,  as  he  made  no 


334  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

movement  to  take  it.  "You  are  the  one  01  all 
others  who  must  read  it." 

Hillbury  had  recognized  the  handwriting.  "  If 
it  is  imperative  that  I  should  read  it,  why  was  it 
not  addressed  to  me  ?  " 

"  You  forget  there  was  a  woman  sacrificed  with 
him,"  said  Josephine  coldly.  "  He  has  written  in 
her  defence,  not  in  his  own.  But  her  cause  and 
his  are  inextricable.  In  telling  the  truth  about 
her,  he  shows  how  he  himself  has  been  mis 
judged." 

"  If  there  is  anything  he  could  have  explained 
and  did  not,  he  has  done  a  great  wrong  to  others 
besides  himself.  A  man  owes  the  truth  about 
himself  to  his  friends  at  all  times,  and  at  certain 
times  he  owes  it  to  all  men.  The  trial  was  one  of 
those  occasions.  Bodewin  had  no  right  to  make 
\  omissions  in  his  testimony.  It  is  not  the  truth 
that  is  sometimes  false,  it  is  half  the  truth." 

"But  one  may  become  involved  through  sym 
pathy  ;  through  tenderness  for  others.  He  was 
bound  by  a  promise  to  one  who  was  dying,  abso 
lutely  helpless  and  at  his  mercy." 

It  was  unfortunate  that  these  hastily  chosen 
words  of  Josephine's  called  up  a  picture  that  was 
almost  revolting  to  a  man  of  Hillbury's  stern  pro- 


JOSEPHINE  AND   HILLBUBY.  335 

bity  and  hatred  of  morbid  sentiment.  "  I  cannot 
imagine,"  he  replied  with  deep-toned  impatience, 
"  any  circumstances  that  should  excuse  a  man 
for  making  an  unconditional  promise  to  conceal 
the  truth,  or  a  part  of  it." 

"  It  is  very  possible  that  you  cannot,"  said 
Josephine ;  "  but  that  was  not  the  question  at 
the  trial.  The  charges  they  made  against  him 
there  are  answered  in  this  letter.  Your  own 
statements  are  answered.  You  owe  it  to  your 
self  to  read  it."  She  offered  him  the  letter  again. 
She  was  hurt  and  disappointed  by  Hillbury's 
manner.  She  had  expected  that  he  would  wel 
come  Bodewin's  explanations  with  unhesitating 
joy,  but  now  it  seemed  as  if  he  required  some 
indorsement  of  the  message  itself.  He  took  the 
letter  and  was  about  to  put  it  away  in  his  pocket- 
book,  when  Josephine  interposed  —  "  Oh,  I  can 
not  give  it  up  to  you ;  I  must  ask  you  to  read  it 
now.  There  are  not  many  pages." 

"I  will  return  it  to  you,  promptly,"  said  Hill- 
bury.  "I  would  rather  read  it,  if  you  please, 
when  I  am  alone ;  you  think  me  possibly  more 
indifferent  in  this  matter  than  I  am." 

It  was  impossible  for  Josephine  to  explain  to 
Hillbury  her  feeling  of  passionate  proprietorship 


336  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

in  Bodewin's  letter.  It  had  come  like  a  revela 
tion,  vouchsafed  to  her  alone,  out  of  the  sad 
mystery  of  his  fate.  It  was,  to  her  simple  imagi 
nation,  the  sole  and  sufficient  proof  of  his  inno 
cence.  She  could  not  part  with  it,  even  for  a 
day.  Her  pride  deserted  her  in  this  dilemma ; 
she  looked  helplessly  at  Hillbury,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes. 

"Read  it  to  me  yourself,"  said  Hillbury  sud 
denly.  "  The  words  will  come  home  to  me  more 
if  I  hear  them  uttered."  He  was  not  slow  to 
comprehend  her  feeling.  He  suspected  that  he 
had  made  a  dreary  mistake  — not  the  first  one  of 
that  strange,  unhappy  summer.  He  wanted  some 
sure  proof  of  it.  There  could  be  none  surer  than 
to  hear  Josephine  tell  Bodewin's  story  in  his  own 
words. 

She  hesitated  but  a  moment  over  the  alterna 
tive.  Then  going  to  the  window  and  seating 
herself  between  the  heavy  partings  of  the  cur 
tains,  she  began  to  read.  At  first  her  voice  trem 
bled  and  the  pages  of  thin  paper  rustled  slightly 
in  her  fingers.  But  soon  she  had  lost  herself  in 
the  story.  Hillbury  listened,  but  not  with  joy, 
for  Bodewin's  justification  was  his  own  sentence, 
and  the  final  blow  to  the  hope  which  had  brought 


JOSEPHINE  AND   HILLBTJRY.  337 

him  there.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  source 
of  this  passion  for  justice  that  thrilled  in  the  girl's 
voice  and  made  the  blood  in  her  cheek  its  wit 
ness.  He  saw  the  sweet  delusion  he  had  been 
cherishing  fade,  and  in  its  place  he  faced  only  the 
cold,  enduring  peace  of  reparation  for  a  wrong 
unconsciously  committed  but  no  less  cruel  in  its 
consequences.  He  saw  where  he  had  failed  in  his 
faith  towards  his  friend.  Failures  or  mistakes  of 
any  kind  were  bitter  things  for  Hillbury  to  ac 
knowledge,  but  while  he  silently  owned  his  short 
comings  his  habit  of  justice  made  him  just,  even 
to  himself.  He  did  not  accuse  himself  extrava 
gantly.  He  had  judged  his  friend  only  as  he  him 
self  would  have  submitted  to  be  judged  by  others. 

When  in  the  course  of  the  narrative  Josephine 
came  to  the  incident  of  the  photograph,  Hillbury 
interrupted  her.  He  did  not  understand  Bode- 
win's  allusion  to  his  relations  with  Harkins 
through  the  death  of  his  sister.  Josephine  laid 
down  the  letter  and  repeated  to  him  the  story  of 
Ellen  Eustis's  death. 

"Was  that  the  'obligation' — the  'delicate  per 
sonal  obligation'  that  Bodewin  suffered  from?" 
Hillbury  exclaimed.  "Poor  fellow!"  he  added 
gently.  Bodewin's  family  pride  and  his  sensitive- 


338  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

ness  through  his  sister  would  be  sure  to  touch 
•;j  Hillbury  far  more  nearly  than  any  entanglement 
of  sentiment,  of  gratitude,  with  a  young  woman 
j\of  a  class  beneath  him. 

"How  strange  that  he  never  told  you  that 
story!"  Josephine  murmured  in  the  pause. 

"May  I  add  how  strange  that  he  told  it  to 
you!" 

Josephine  hung  her  head.  "Before  the  trial," 
she  explained  falteringly,  "  he  had  told  me  many 
things  about  himself  which  our  short  acquaint 
ance  did  not  entitle  me  to  know.  But  it  came 
about  through  my  presuming  to  ask  him  why  he 
would  not  be  my  father's  witness."  Josephine 
felt  how  Hillbury  would  regard  this  statement. 
When  the  story  had  progressed  as  far  as  the 
scene  on  the  porch,  when  Babe  had  submitted  to 
have  her  eye  treated,  the  reader  laid  the  letter 
down  and  looked  at  Hillbury.  "Is  it  not  true," 
she  said,  "that  proofs  can  lie?  The  only  thing 
that  can  be  trusted  is  character.  A  man  thirty 
years  old  should  have  one.  His  friends,  I  think, 
should  know  what  it  is,  and  —  forgive  me  —  I 
think  they  should  let  no  evidence,  hardly  the  evi 
dence  of  their  senses,  shake  the  faith  that  has 
once  been  given." 


JOSEPHINE  AND   HILLBUEY.  339 

If  Josephine  was  merciless,  it  was  because  Hill- 
bury  seemed  to  her  so  little  moved. 

"Spare  me,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "Yours 
was  the  better  part;  but  it  is  possible  that  only  a 
man  can  fully  measure  a  man's  temptations.  And 
the  effect  of  a  thing  seen  is  tremendous." 

When  Josephine  had  folded  the  letter,  Hillbury 
rose  and  walked  slowly  towards  the  window 
where  she  sat.  He  still  held  his  hat  and  gloves, 
and  as  he  bent  over  her  hand  in  farewell,  he 
looked  merely  a  perfectly  dressed  and  irreproach 
able  afternoon  visitor  taking  his  leave.  Yet  never 
in  his  life  before  had  he  been  so  deeply  moved. 

"What  I  have  learned  from  you,  Miss  Newbold, 
makes  it  necessary  that  I  should  see  John  Bode- 
win  as  soon  as  possible.  Can  you  tell  where  he  is  ?  " 

"I  have  no  idea,"  said  Josephine. 

"Does  his  letter  give  no  clew?" 

She  shook  her  head.  Her  overwrought  nerves 
were  giving  way  and  she  could  not  trust  herself 
to  speak. 

"Wherever  he  is,"  said  Hillbury  slowly,  in  his 
fine,  sad  accent,  "I  will  find  him,  if  he  be  living. 
When  I  see  him  I  shall  wish  to  say  to  him  the 
thing  that  will  be  most  comforting.  He  must  be 
very  sore  — "  He  waited  a  moment.  Josephine 


340  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

could  not  speak.  "Your  perceptions  throughout 
have  been  so  much  truer  than  mine,"  he  con 
tinued,  — "  Can  you  not  give  me  the  right  words 
to  say?  There  must  be  no  more  blundering. 
What  shall  I  say  that  will  be  most  sure  to  bring 
him  back  to  us?" 

"Oh,"  said  Josephine,  "if  you  find  him,  tell 
him  I  wish  to  see  him ;  I  have  something  to  say 
to  him  myself." 

"I  will  find  him,"  Hillbury  repeated,  "and  he 
will  come." 

As  Hillbury  walked  back  to  his  hotel  he  said  to 
himself  that  the  time  had  now  come  for  testing 
the  strength  of  those  ideals  to  which  he  had 
pledged  his  manhood.  Had  not  this  visit  ended 
better  than  his  dream  had  planned  ?  What  happi 
ness  was  there  that  a  man  should  put  before  the 
truth  and  his  own  duty?  And  was  his  duty,  then, 
so  hard?  To  clear  up  a  cruel  misconception,  to 
reverse  an  unjust  judgment,  to  help  a  friend  to 
the  bliss  that  he  must  himself  resign  — 

"I  will  find  him,  and  he  will  come!"  Many 
times  in  the  days  that  followed  Hillbury's  visit, 
Josephine  repeated  these  words  to  herself,  and 
saw  again  his  sad  yet  satisfied  smile  of  prophecy. 
She  lived  upon  the  words  until  the  promise  was 
fulfilled. 


CHAPTER  XXVL 

THE   DESERT   STATION. 

ONE  day  of  the  following  summer  an  overland 
train,  westward  bound,  left  two  of  its  passengers 
at  a  station  on  the  desert  plains,  consisting  of  one 
frame  house,  a  "  dug-out,"  a  section  house,  and  a 
water-tank.  It  was  not  a  meal  station;  no 
through  train  would  stop  there  until  the  following 
day.  A  conveyance  called  a  "jerky"  would 
arrive  in  two  hours'  time  from  some  obscure  habi 
tation  of  men  in  the  desert,  arid  continue  thence 
to  its  next  stopping-place,  thirty  miles  away. 
But  even  this  poor  chance  of  rescue  was  not 
known  to  the  sympathetic  carload  of  passengers 
who  were  now  abandoning  two  of  their  number 
to  their  fate. 

The  self-devoted  ones  were  a  woman    in   her 

first  youth  and  a  man  not  so  young  by  several 

years.     Both  were  interesting  in  appearance,  and, 

as  if  to  complete  the  contrast  between  herself  and 

341 


342 

her  surroundings,  the  girl  was  quietly  but  intelli 
gently  dressed  in  the  height  of  the  summer's  fash 
ion  for  young  lady  tourists,  in  the  world  where 
the  fashions  are  a  record  of  the  seasons  as  they 
pass.  While  her  companion  was  directing  the 
porter  who  carried  their  hand-luggage,  the  young 
woman  walked  to  the  end  of  the  short  platform 
and  stood  there  looking  before  her  eagerly.  In 
her  happy  eyes  there  was  something  like  recogni 
tion  of  the  scene,  or  a  remembrance  of  some  other 
scene  which  it  vividly  recalled.  Strongly  char 
acterized  as  it  was,  there  was  indeed  nothing  sin 
gular  in  the  view.  Hundreds  of  miles  of  such 
country  can  be  seen  by  the  traveller  west  of  the 
Missouri  River.  The  sage-brush  was  turning 
gray  with  the  long  summer's  deepening  dust; 
the  blue  of  the  cloudless  sky  was  darker  than  the 
sun-blanched  plain  ;  rising  afar  off  where  sky  and 
desert  meet,  a  range  of  peaks  showed  their  snow- 
covered  tops,  like  white  sails  on  the  horizon. 

The  young  girl  and  her  travelling  companion 
stood  side  by  side  as  the  train  moved  off,  watch 
ing  the  little  colony,  of  which  they  had  lately 
been  a  part,  receding  from  their  gaze  down  the 
lessening  lines  of  the  track.  Two  or  three  heads 
looked  back  at  them  from  open  windows.  A 


THE  DESEKT   STATION.  343 

young  man  sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  rear  car 
waved  his  hat  to  them,  with  the  compassion  of 
one  who  goes  with  the  majority  for  the  pathetic 
minority  left  behind. 

The  two  who  were  in  the  minority  did  not  re 
spond  ;  they  turned  and  smiled  at  each  other. 

"  They  are  sorry  for  us !  "  said  Josephine. 

The  man  on  the  rear  car  was  a  mere  speck  in 
the  distance.  Bodewin  stooped  and  kissed  her 
for  the  look  with  which  she  said  those  words. 

The  noise  of  the  train  died  away  and  they  were 
left  standing  alone  on  the  heated  boards  of  the 
platform,  enfolded  in  the  stillness  of  the  desert. 
Gradually  their  stunned  ears  became  accustomed 
to  the  fainter  range  of  sounds  around  them.  The 
ticket  agent,  who  had  partially  satisfied  his  curi 
osity  with  regard  to  them,  and  returned  to  the 
solitude  of  his  official  duties,  could  be  heard  rust 
ling  a  newspaper  and  grating  a  chair  across  the 
floor  within.  The  hurried  click,  click  of  the  tele 
graph  machine  asserted  itself  imperatively,  like 
the  voice  of  the  world  they  had  left  warning  them 
to  come  back.  The  wind  from  off  the  desert, 
blowing  in  their  faces,  seemed  to  call  to  them 
from  that  unknown  region  whither  they  were 
venturing  together.  Josephine  lifted  her  out- 


344  JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

stretched  arms  and  welcomed  it  with  a  thrill  of 
joy  that  was  keen  with  the  memory  of  pain.  It 
was  the  wind  of  the  high  valley  where  she  and 
Bode  win  had  ridden  together  —  it  was  the  plain's 
wind  that  had  rattled  the  dusty  lattices  outside  of 
the  room  where  she  lay,  alone  with  her  anguish, 
the  evening  after  the  trial. 

Wind  of  the  great  Far  West,  soft,  electric,  and 
strong,  blowing  up  through  gates  of  the  great 
mountain  ranges,  over  miles  of  dry  savannah, 
where  its  playmates  are  the  roving  bands  of  wild 
horses,  and  the  dust  of  the  trails  which  it  weaves 
into  spiral  clouds  and  carries  like  banners  before 
it !  Wind  of  prophecy  and  of  hope,  of  tireless 
energy  and  desire  that  life  shall  not  satisfy. 
Who  that  has  heard  its  call  in  the  desert,  or  its 
whisper  in  the  mountain  valleys,  can  resist  the 
longing  to  follow,  to  prove  the  hope,  to  test  the 
prophecy ! 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


-i  i^. 

•t  3  QRffiB 
MAY  2 


QCTl'3'75 


SEP  10  '80 


SP     '80 


Om-12,'70(P1251s8)2373-3A,l 


3  2106  00206  853 


